No More Learning

Landor and Swinburne have, I think, forestalled Tailhade's hellenic poems in our affections. There are also his ballades to be considered.
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53
FRANCIS JAMMES (born 1868)
The bulk of Jammes' unsparable poetry is perhaps largerthanthatofanymanstilllivinginFrance. The three first books of poems, and "Le Triomphe de la Vie" containing "Existences," the more than "Spoon River" of France, must contain about six hundred pages worth reading. "Existences" can not be rendered in snippets. It is not a series of f>oems, but the canvass of a whole
small town or half city, unique, inimitable and "to the life," full of verve. Only those who have read it and "L'Angelus de I'Aube," can appreciate the full tragedy of Jammes' debacle. Paul Fort had what his friends boasted as "tone," and he has diluted himself with topicalities ; in Jammes' case it is more charitable to sup- pose some organic malady, some definite softening of the brain, for he seems perfectly simple and naive in his debacle. It may be, in both cases, that the organisms have broken beneath the strain of modern existence.
But the artist has no business to break. Let us begin with Jammes' earlier work:
J'aime I'ane si doux marchant le long des houx. II prend garde aux abeilles et bouge ses oreilles;
et il porte les pauvres
et des sacs remplis d'orge. II va, pres des fosses
d'un petit pas casse.
Mon amie le croit bete
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parce qu'il est poete.
II reflechit toujours,
Ses yeux sont en velours. Jeune fille au doux coeur tu n'as pas sa douceur.
The fault is the fault, or danger, which Dante has labeled "muliebria"; of its excess Jammes has since perished. But the poem to the donkey can, in certain moods, please one. In other moods the playful sim- plicity, at least in excess, is almost infuriating. He runs so close to sentimentalizing--when he does not fall into that puddle--that there are numerous excuses for those who refuse him altogether. "J'allai a Lourdes" has pathos. Compare it with Corbiere's "St. Anne" and the . decadence is apparent; it is indeed a sort of half-way house between the barbaric Breton religion and the ulti- mate deliquescence of French Catholicism in Claudel, who (as I think it is James Stephens has said) "is merely lying on his back kicking his heels in it. "
J' ALLAIALOURDES
J'allai a Lourdes par le chemin de fer, le long du gave qui est bleu comme I'air.
Au soleil les montagnes semblaient d'etain. EtTonchantait: sauvez! sauvez! dansletrain,
II y avait un monde fou, exalte, plein de poussiere et du soleil d'ete.
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Des malheureux avec le ventre en avant etendaient leurs bras, priaient en les tordant.
Et dans une chaire ou etait du drap bleu, un pretre disait : "un chapelet a Dieu ! "
Et un groupe de femmes, parfois, passait,
qui chantait : sauvez ! sauvez ! sauvez ! sauvez
Et la procession chantait. Les drapeaux se penchaient avec leurs devises en or.
Le soleil etait blanc sur les escaliers
dans I'air bleu, sur les cloches dechiquetees.
Mais sur un brancard, portee par ses parents, son pauvre pere tete nue et priant,
et ses freres qui disaient: "ainsi soit-il," une jeune fiUe sur le point de mourir.
Oh ! qu'elle etait belle ! elle avait dix-huit ans, et elle souriait ; elle etait en blanc.
Et la procession chantait. Des drapeaux se penchaient avec leurs devises en or.
Moi je serrais les dents pour ne pas pleurer, et cette fiUe, je me sentais I'aimer.
Oh! elle m'a regarde un grand moment. , une rose blanche en main, souriant.
Mais maintenant ou es-tu? dis, ou es-tu, Es-tu morte ? je t'aime, toi qui m'as vu.
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Si tu existes, Dieu, ne la tue pas.
elle avait des mains blanches, de minces bras.
Dieu ne la tue pas ! --et ne serait-ce que pour son pere nu-tete qui priait Dieu.
Jammes goes to pieces on such adjectives as "pauvre' and "petite," just as DeRegnier slips on "cher," "aimee' and"tiede"; andintheirtrainflocktheherdwhosead jectival centre appears to waver from "nue" to "fremis sante. " And there is, in many French poets, a fata proclivity to fuss just a little too much over their sub- jects. Jammes has also the furniture tendency, and tc it we owe several of his quite charming poems.
How- ever the strongest impression I get to-day, reading hi; work in inverse order (i. e. "Jean de Noarrieu" befon these earlier poems), is of the very great stylistic ad-
vance made in that poem over his earlier work.
But he is very successful in saying all there was to be
said in:
LA JEUNE FILLE
La jeune fiUe est blanche, elle a des veines vertes
au poignets, dans ses manches
ouvertes.
On ne sait pas pourquoi elle rit. Par moments elle crie et cela
est per^ant.
Est-ce qu'elle se doute qu'elle vous prend le coeur en cueillant sur la route
des fleurs.
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On dirait quelquefois qu'elle comprend des choses. Pas toujours. Elle cause
tout bas
"Oh! machere! oh! la, la . . . . . . Figure-toi. . . mardi
je I'ai vu . . . j'ai ri"--Elle dit
comme ga.
Quand un jeune homme souffre, d'abord elle se tait:
elle ne rit plus, tout
etonnee.
Dans les petits chemins elle remplit ses mains de piquants de bruyeres
de fougeres.
Elle est grande, elle est blanche, elle a des bras tres doux,
Elle est tres droite et penche
le cou.
The poem beginning:
Tu seras nue dans le salon aux vieilles choses, fine comme un fuseau de roseau de lumiere
et, les jambes croisees, aupres du feu rose
tu ecouteras I'hiver
loses, perhaps, or gains little by comparison with that of Heinrich von Morungen, beginning:
Oh weh, soil mir nun nimmermehr hell leuchten durch die Nacht
noch weisser denn ein Schnee
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ihr Leib so wohl gemacht? Der trog die Augen mein, ich wahnt, es sollte sein des lichten Monden Schein, da tagte es.
Morungen had had no occasion to say "Je pense a Jean-Jacques," and it is foolish, to expect exactly the same charm of a twentieth-century poet that we find in a thirteenth-century poet. Still it is not necessary to be Jammes-crazy to feel
ILVANEIGER. . .
II va neiger dans quelques jours. Je me souviens deI'andernier. Jemesouviensdemestristesses aucoindufeu. SiTonm'avaitdemande: qu'est-ce? j'auraisdit:laissez-moitranquille. Cen'estrien. J'ai bien reflechi, I'annee avant, dans ma chambre, pendant que la neige lourde tombait dehors.
J'ai reflechi pour rien. A present comme alors je fume une pipe en bois avec un bout d'ambre.
Ma vieille commode en chene sent toujours bon. Mais moi j'etais bete parce que ces choses
ne pouvaient pas changer et que c'est une pose de vouloir chasser les choses que nous savons.
Pourquoi done pensons-nous et parlons-nous ? C'est drole
nos larmes et nos baisers, eux, ne parlent pas, et cependant nous les comprenons, et les pas d'un ami sont plus doux que de douces paroles.
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If I at all rightly understand the words "vouloir chasser les choses que nous savons" they are an excellent warning against the pose of simplicity over-done that has been the end of Maeterlinck, and of how naany other poets whose poetic machinery consists in so great part of pretending to know less than they do.
Jammes' poems are well represented in Miss Lowell's dilutation on Six French Poets, especially by the well- known "Amsterdam" and "Madame de Warens," which are also in Van Bever and Leautaud. He reaches, as I have said, his greatest verve in "Existences" in the volume "Le Triomphe de la Vie. "
I do not wish to speak in superlatives, but "Exist- ences," if not Jammes' best work, and if not the most important single volume by any living French poet, either of which it well may be, is at any rate indispen- sable. It is one of the first half dozen books that a man wanting to know contemporary French work must in- dulge in. One can not represent it in snippets. Still I quote "Le Poete" (his remarks at a provincial soiree) :
Cest drole . . . Cette petite sera bete
comme ces gens-la, comme son pere et sa mere. Et cependant elle a une grace infinie.
II y a en elle I'intelligence de la beaute.
Cest delicieux, son corsage qui n'existe pas,
son derriere et ses pieds. Mais elle sera bete comme une oie dans deux ans d'ici. Elle va jouer.
{Benette joue la valse des elfes)
In an earlier scene we have a good example of his rapidity in narrative.
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La Servante
II y a quelqu'un qui veut parler a monsieur.
Qui est-ce?
Je ne sais pas.
Un homme.
Le PoHe
La Servante
Le Pokte
Un homme ou une femme?
La Servante
Poete
Un commis-voyageur, Vous me le foutez belle!
La Servante Je ne sais pas, monsieur.
Poete
Faites entrer au salon.
Laissez-moi achever d'achever ces cerises.
{Next Scene)
Le Poete (dans son salon)
A qui ai-je I'honneur de parler, monsieur?
Le Monsieur
Monsieur, je suis le cousin de votre ancienne
maitresse.
Le Poete Dequellemaitresse? Jenevousconnaispas.
Et puis qu'est-ce que vous voulez? Le Monsieur
Monsieur, ecoutez-moi. On m'a dit que vous etes bon.
Poete
Ce n'est pas vrai.
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La Pipe du Poete
II me bourre avec une telle agitation
que je ne vais jamais pourvoir tirer de I'air. Poete
D'abord, de quelle maitresse me parlez-vous?
De qui, pretendez-vous ? Non. Vous pretendez de qui j'ai ete I'amant?
Oui, monsieur.
Le Monsieur De Neomie.
Po^te
Le Monsieur
De Neomie,
Poete
Ou habitez-vous ?
Le Monsieur
J'habite les environs de Mont-de-Marsan.
Pokte Enfin que voulez-vous?
Le Monsieur
Savoir si monsieur serait
assez complaisant pour me donner quelque chose. Po^te
Et si je ne vous donne le pas, qu'est-ce que vous ferez?
Le Monsieur
Oh ! Rien monsieur. Je ne vous ferai rien. Non . . .
Le Poete
Tenez, voila dix francs, et foutez-moi la paix. (Le monsieur s'en va, puis le poete sort. )
The troubles of the Larribeau family, Larribeau and the bonne, the visit of the "Comtese de Pentacosa," who is also staved oif with ten francs, are all worth quoting.
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The whole small town is "Spoon-Rivered" with equal verve. "Existences" was written in 1900.
MOREAS
It must not be thought that these very "modem" poets owe their modernity merely to some magic chemical present in the Parisian milieu. Moreas was born in
1856, the year after Verhaeren, but his Madeline-aux- serpents might be William Morris on Rapunzel
Et votre chevelure comme des grappes d'ombres, Et ses bandelettes a vos tempes,
Et la kabbale de vos yeux latents, Madeline-aux-serpents, Madeline.
Madeline, Madeline, Pourquoi vos levres a mon cou, ah, pourquoi
Vos levres entre les coups du hache du roi! Madeline, et les cordaces et les fliites,
Les flutes, les pas d'amour, les flutes, vous les
vouliites,
Helas ! Madeline, la fete, Madeline,
Ne berce plus les flots au bord de ITle,
Et mes bouffons ne crevent plus des cerceaux
Au bord de ITle, pauvres bouffons.
Pauvres bouflfons que couronne la saugel
Et mes litieres s'effeuillent aux ornieres, toutes mes
litieres a grand pans
De nonchaloir, Madeline-aux-serpents . . .
A difference with Morris might have arisen, of course, over the now long-discussed question of vers libre, but who are we to dig up that Babylon? The school-boys' papers of Toulouse had learnt all about it before the old
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gentlemen of The Century and Harper's had discovered that such things exist.
One will not have understood the French poetry of the last half-century unless one makes allowance for what they call the Gothic as well as the Roman or classic influence. We should probably call it (their "Gothic") "medievalism," its tone is that of their XIII century poets, Crestien de Troies, Marie de France, or perhaps even D'Orleans (as we noticed in the quotation from Viele-Griffin) . Tailhade in his "Hymne Antique" dis- plays what we would call Swinburnism (Greekish). Tristan Klingsor (a nom de plume showing definite ten- dencies) exhibits these things a generation nearer to us
Dans son reve le vieux Prince de Touraine voit passer en robe verte a longue traine Yeldis aux yeux charmeurs de douce reine.
or
Au verger ou sifflent les sylphes d'automne
mignonne Isabelle est venue de Venise
et veut cueillir des cerises et des pommes.
He was writing rhymed vers libre in 1903', possibly stimulated by translations in a volume called "Poesie Arabe. " Thisbookhasanextremelyinterestingpreface. I have forgotten the name of the translator, but in ex- cusing the simplicity of Arab songs he says : "The young girl in Germany educated in philosophy in Kant and Hegel, when love comes to her, at once exclaims 'In- finite ! ', and allies her vocabulary with the transcendental.
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The little girl in the tents 'ne savait comparer fors que sa gourmandise. ' " In Klingsor for 1903, I find
Croise tes jambes fines et nues
Dans ton lit,
Frotte de tes mignonnes mains menues
Le bout de ton nez;
Frotte de tes doigts poteles et jolis,
Les deux violettes de tes yeux cernes,
Et reve.
Du haut du minaret arabe s'echappe
La melopee triste et breve
De I'indiscret muezzin
Qui nasillonne et qui eternue,
Et toi tu bailies comme une petite chatte, Tu bailies d'amour brisee,
Et tu songes au passant d'Ormuz ou d'Endor Qui t'a quittee ce matin
En te laissant sa legere bourse d'or
Et les marques bleues de ses baisers.
Later he turns to Max Elkskamp, addressing him as if he, Klingsor, at last had "found Jesus":
Je viens vers vous, mon cher Elkskamp JComme un pauvre varlet de coeur et de joie
Vient vers le beau seigneur qui campe Sous sa tente d'azur et de soie.
However I believe Moreas was a real poet, and, being stubborn, I have still an idea which got imbedded in my head some years ago: I mean that Klingsor is a poet.
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As for the Elkskamp phase and cult, I do not make much of it.
Jean de Bosschere has written a book upon Elkskamp, and he assures me that Elkskamp is a great and important poet, and some day, perhaps, I may un- derstand it. De Bosschere seems to me to see or to feel perhaps more keenly than any one else certain phases of modern mechanical civilization: the ant-like madness of men bailing out little boats they never will sail in, shoeing horses they never will ride, making chairs they never will sit on, and all with a frenzied intentness. I may get my conviction as much from his drawings as from his poems. I am not yet clear in my mind about it. His opinion of Max Elkskamp can not be too lightly passedover. Videinfra"DeBosschereonElkskamp. "
OF OUR DECADE
Early in 1912 L'Effort, since called L'Effort Libre, published an excellent selection of poems mostly by men born since 1880: Arcos, Chenneviere, Duhamel, Spire, Vildrac, and Jules Romains, with some of Leon Bazal- gette's translations from Whitman.
SPIRE (born 1868)
Andre Spire, writing in the style of the generation which has succeeded him, is well represented in this col- lectionbyhis"DamesAnciennes. " Thecontentsofhis volumes are of very uneven value: Zionist propaganda, addresses, and a certain number of well-written poems.
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DAMES ANCIENNES
En hiver, dans la chambre claire, Tout en haut de la maison,
Le poele de faience blanche,
Cercle de cuivre, provincial, doux, Chauffait mes doigts et mes livres. Et le peuplier mandarine,
Dans le soir d'argent dedore, Dressait, en silence, ses branches, Devant ma fenetre close.
--Mere, le printemps aux doigts tiedes A souleve I'espagnolette
De mes fenetres sans rideaux.
Faites taire toutes ces voix qui montent Jusqu'a ma table de travail.
--Ce sent les amies de ma mere Et de la mere de ton pere,
Qui causent de leurs maris morts, Et de leurs fils partis.
--Avec, au coin de leurs levres,
Ces moustaches de cafe au lait?
Et dans leurs mains ces tartines? Dans leurs bouches ces Kouguelofs?
--Ce sont des cavales anciennes
Qui machonnent le peu d'herbe douce Que Dieu veut bien leur laisser.
--Mere, les maitres sensibles Lachent les juments inutiles
!
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--Sois tranquille, mon fils, sois tranquille, Elles ne brouteront pas tes fleurs.
--Mere, que n'y occupent-elles leurs levres, Et leurs trop courtes dents trop blanches De porcelaine trop fragile!
--Mon fils, fermez votre fenetre. Mon fils, vous n'etes pas chretien
VILDRAC
ViLDRAc's "Gloire" is in a way commentary on Remains' Ode to the Crowd ; a critique of part, at least, of unanimism.
II avait su gagner a lui Beaucoup d'hommes ensemble.
Et son bonheur etait de croire, Quand il avait quitte la foule. Que chacun des hommes I'aimait Et que sa presence durait Innombrable et puissante en eux.
Or un jour il en suivit un
Qui retournait chez soi, tout seul,
Et il vit son regard s'eteindre
Des qu'il fut un peu loin des autres.
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(The full text of this appeared in Poetry Aug. , 1913. ) Vildrac's two best-known poems are "Une Auberge" and "Visite" ; the first a forlorn scene, not too unlike a Van Gogh, though not done with \^an Gogh's vigor.
C'est seulement parce qu'on a soif qu'on entre y boire C'est parce qu'on se sent tomber qu'on va s'y asseoir. On n'y est jamais a la fois qu'un oii deux
Et Ton n'est pas force d'y raconter son histoire.
Celui qui entre
mange lentement son pain
Parce que ses dents sont usees;
Et il boit avec beaucoup de mal Parce qu'il a de peine plein sa gorge.
Quand il a fini,
II hesite, puis timide Va s'asseoir un- peu A cote du feu.
Ses mains crevassees epousent
Les bosselures dures de ses genoux.
Then of the other man in the story:
"qui n'etait pas des notres. . . .
"Mais comme il avait I'air cependant d'etre des notres
The story or incident in "Visite" is that of a man stir-
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ring himself out of his evening comfort to visit some pathetic dull friends.
Ces gens helas, ne croyaient pas
Qu'il ftit venu a I'improviste Sitard,desiloin,parlaneige. . .
Et ils attendaient I'un et I'autre
Que brusquement et d'un haleine il exposat La grave raison de sa venue.
Only when he gets up to go, "ils oserent comprendre"
II leur promit de revenir.
Mais avant de gagner la porte
II fixa bien dans sa memoire
Le lieu ou s'abritait leur vie.
II regarda bien chaque objet
Et puis aussi I'homme et la femme, Tant il craignait au fond de lui
De ne plus jamais revenir.
The relation of Vildrac's verse narratives to the short story form is most interesting.
JULES ROMAINS
The reader vi^ho has gone through Spire, Romains, and Vildrac, will have a fair idea of the poetry written by this group of men. Romains has always seemed to me, and is, I think, generally recognized as, the nerve-centre, the dynamic centre of the group.
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Les marchands sont assis aux portes des boutiques lis regardent. Les toits joignent la rue au del Et les paves semblent feconds sous le soleil
Comme un champ de mais.
Les marchands ont laisse dormir pres du comptoir
Ee desir de gagner qui travaille des I'aube.
On dirait que, malgre leur ame habituelle,
Une autre ame s'avance et vient au seuil d'eux-memes Comme ils viennent au seuil de leurs boutiques noires.
We are regaining for cities a little of what savage man has for the forest. We live by instinct; receive news by instinct; have conquered machinery as primi- tive man conquered the jungle. Remains feels this, though his phrases may not be ours. Wyndham Lewis on giants is nearer Remains than anjrthing else in Eng- lish, but vorticism is, in the realm of biology, the hy- pothesis of the dominant cell. Lewis on giants comes perhaps nearer Remains than did the original talks about the Vortex. There is in inferior minds a passion for unity, that is, for a confusion and melting together of things which a good mind will want kept distinct. Un- informed-English criticism has treated Unanimism as if it were a vague general propaganda, and this criticism has cited some of our worst and stupidest versifiers as a corresponding manifestation in England. One can only account for such error by the very plausible hy- pothesis that the erring critics have not read "Puissances de Paris. "
Remains is net to be understood by extracts and frag- ments. He has felt this general replunge of mind into instinct, or this development of instinct to cope with a metropolis, and with metropolitan conditions; in so far
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as he has expressed the emotions of this consciousness he is poet; he has, aside from that, tried to formulate this new consciousness, and in so far as such formulation is dogmatic, debatable, intellectual, hyJ)othetical, he is opentoargumentanddispute; thatistosayheisphilos- opher, and his philosophy is definite and defined. Vil- drac's statement "II a change la pathetique" is perfectly true. Many people will prefer the traditional and fa- miliar and recognizable poetry of writers like Klingsor. I am not dictating people's likes and dislikes. Romains has made a new kind of poetry. Since the scrapping of the Aquinian, Dantescan system, he is perhaps the first person who had dared put up so definite a philo- sophical frame-work for his emotions.
I do not mean, by this, that I agree with Jules Romains; I am prepared to go no further than my opening sentence of this section, concerning our grow- ing, or returning, or perhaps only newly-noticed, sensi- tization to crowd feeling; to the metropolis and its peculiar sensations. Turn to Romains
Je croyais les murs de ma chambre impermeables. Or ils laissent passer une tiede bruine
Qui s'epaissit et qui m'empeche de me voir, Lepapierafleursbleuesluicede. IIfaitlebruit Du sable et du cresson qu'une source traverse. L'air qui touche mes nerfs est extremement lourd. Ce n'est pas comme avant le pur milieu de vie Ou montait de la solitude sublimee.
Voila que par osmose
Toute I'immensite d'alentour le sature.
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II charge mes poumons, il empoisse les choses, II separe mon corps des meubles familiers,
Les forces du dehors s'enroulent a mes mains.
In "Puissances de Paris" he states that there are beingsmore"realthantheindividual. " Here,Icanbut touch upon salients.
Rien ne cesse d'etre interieur.
La rue est plus intime a cause de la brume.
Lines like Romains', so well packed with thought, so careful that you will get the idea, can not be poured out by the bushel like those of contemporary rhetoricians, like those of Claudel and Fort. The best poetry has always a content, it may not be an intellectual content; in Romains the intellectual statement is necessary to keep the new emotional content coherent.
The opposite of Lewis's giant appears in
Je suis I'esclave heureux des hommes dont I'haleine Flotte ici. Leur vouloirs s'ecoule dans mes nerfs; Ce qui est moi commence a fondre.
This statement has the perfectly simple order of words. Itisthesimplestatementofamansayingthings for the first time, whose chief concern is that he shall speak clearly. His work is perhaps the fullest statement of the poetic consciousness of our time, or the scope of that consciousness. I am not saying he is the most poignant poet; simply that in him we have the fullest
poetic exposition.
You can get the feel of Laforgue or even of Corbiere
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from a few poems; Romains is a subject for study. I do not say this as praise, I am simply trying to define him. His "Un Etre en Marche" is the narrative of a girls' school, of the "crocodile" or procession going out for its orderly walk, its collective sensations and adven-
, tures.
Troupes and herds appear in his earlier work:
Le troupeau marche, avec ses chiens et son berger, II a peur. Qk et la des reverberes brulent,
II tremble d'etre poursuivi par les etoiles.
La foule traine une ecume d'ombrelles blanches
La grande ville s'evapore,
Et pleut a verse sur la plaine
Qu'elle sature.
His style is not a "model," it has the freshness of grass, not of new furniture polish. In his work many nouns meet their verbs for the first time, as, perhaps, in the'lastlinesabovequoted. Heneeds,asarule,about a hundred pages to turn round in. One can not give these poems in quotation ; one wants about five volumes of Romains. In so far as I am writing "criticism," I must say that his prose is just as interesting as his verse. But then his verse is just as interesting as his prose. Part of his method is to show his subject in a series of successive phases, thus in L'Individu
'V .
Je suis un habitant de ma ville, un de ceux
Qui s'assoient au theatre et qui vont par les rues
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VI
Je cesse lentement d'etre moi. Ma personne Semble s'aneantir chaque jour un peu plus C'est a peine si je le sens et m'en etonne.
His poetry is not of single and startling emotions, but--for better or worse--of progressive states of con- sciousness. It is as useless for the disciple to try and imitate Romains, without having as much thought of his own, as it is for the tyro in words to try imitations of Jules Laforgue. The limitation of Romains' work, as of a deal of Browning's, is that, having once understood it, one may not need or care to re-read it. This restric- tion applies also in a wholly different way to "En- dymion" ; having once filled the mind with Keats' color, or the beauty of things described, one gets no new thrill from the re-reading of them in not very well-written verse. This limitation applies to all poetry that is not implicit in its own medium, that is, which is not indis- solubly bound in with the actual words, word music, the fineness and firmness of the actual writing, as in Villon, or in "Collis O Heliconii. "
ButonecannotleaveRomainsunread. Hisinterest is more than a prose interest, he has verse technique, rhyme, terminal syzygy, but that is not what I mean. He is poetry in:
On ne m'a pas donne de lettres, ces jours-ci Personne n'a songe, dans la ville, a m'ecrire.
Oh! je n'esperais rien; je sais vivre et penser Tout seul, et mon esprit, pour faire une flambee, N'attend pas qu'on lui jette une feuille noircie.
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Mais je sens qu'il me manque un plaisir familier,
J'ai du bonheur aux mains quand j'ouvre une enveloppe;
But such statements as: TENTATION
1
Je me plais beaucoup trop a rester dans les gares Accoude sur le bois anguleux des barrieres,
Je regarde les trains s'emplir de voyageurs.
and:
would not be important unless they were followed by exposition. The point is that they are followed by ex- position, to which they form a necessary introduction, defining Romains' angle of attack; and as a result the forceofRemainsiscumulative. Hisearlybooksgather meaning as one reads through the later ones.
And I think if one opens him almost anywhere one can discern the authentic accent of a'man saying some- thing, not the desultory impagination of rehash.
Charles Vildrac is an interesting companion figure to his brilliant friend Romains. He conserves himself, he is never carried away by Romains' theories. He ad- mires, differs, and occasionally formulates a corrective or corollary as in "Gloire. "
Mon esprit solitaire est une goutte d'huile Sur la pensee et sur le songe de la villa
Qui me laissent flotter et ne m'absorbent pas.
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Compare this poem with Remains' "Ode to the Crowd Here Present" and you get the two angles of vision.
Henry Spiess, a Genevan lawyer, has written an in- teresting series of sketches of the court-room. He is a more or less isolated figure. I have seen amusing and indecorous poems by George Fourest, but it is quite probable that they amuse because one is unfamiliar with their genre ; still "La Blonde Negresse" (the heroine of his title), his satire of the symbolo-rhapsodicoes in the series of poems about her: "La negresse blonde, la blonde negresse," gathering into its sound all the swish and woggle of the sound-over-sensists ; the poem on the beautiful blue-behinded baboon; that on the gentle- man "qui ne craignait ni la verole ni dieu"; "Les pianos du Casino au bord de la mer" (Laforgue plus the four- hour touch), are an egregious and diverting guffaw.
(I do not think the book is available to the public. J. G. Fletcher once lent me a copy, but the edition was limited and the work seems rather unknown. )
Romains is my chief concern. I can not give a full exposition of Unanimism on a page or two. Among all the younger writers and groups in Paris, the group cen- tering in Romains is the only one which seems to me to have an energy comparable to that of the Blast group in London,'" the only group in which the writers for Blast can be expected to take very much interest.
Romains in the flesh does not seem so energetic as Lewis in the flesh, but then I have seen Romains only onceandIamwellacquaintedwithLewis. Romainsis, in his writing, more placid, the thought seems more passive, less impetuous. As for those who will not have Lewis "at any price," there remains to them no other course than the acceptance of Romains, for these
* Statement dated Feb. , 1918.
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two men hold the two tenable, positions : the Mountain and the Multitude.
It might be fairer to Rpmains to say simply he has chosen, or specialized in, the collected multitude as a subject matter, and that he is quite well on a mountain of his own.
My general conclusions, redoing and reviewing this period of French poetry, are (after my paw-over of some sixty new volumes as mentioned, and after re-reading most of what I had read before) :
1. As stated in my opening, that mediocre poetry is about the same in all countries ; that France has as much drivel, gas, mush, etc. , poured into verse, as has any other nation.
2. That it is impossible "to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," or poetry out of nothing; that all attempts to "expand" a subject into poetry are futile, funda- mentally; that the subject matter must be coterminous with the expression. Tasso, Spenser, Ariosto, prose poems, diffuse forms of all sorts are all a preciosity; a parlor-game, and dilutations go to the scrap heap.
3. That Corbiere, Rimbaud, Laforgue are permanent; that probably some of De Gourmont's and Tailhade's poems are permanent, or at least reasonably durable; that Romains is indispensable, for the present at any rate; thatpeoplewhosaythey"don'tlikeFrenchpoetry" are possibly matoids, and certainly ignorant of the scope and variety of French work. In the same way people are ignorant of the qualities of French people; ignorant that if they do not feel at home in Amiens (as I do not),
thefe are other places in France; in the Charente if you walk across country you meet people exactly like the nicest people you can meet in the American country and they are not "foreign! '
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All France is not to be found in Paris. The adjective "French" is current in America with a dozen erroneous or stupid connotations. If it means, as it did in the mouth of my contemporary, "talcum powder" and sur- face neatness, the selection of poems I have given here would almost show the need of, or at least a reason for, French Parnassienism ; for it shows the French poets violent, whether with the violent words of Corbiere, or the quiet violence of the irony of Laforgue, the sudden annihilations of his "turn-back" on the subject. People
forget that the incision of Voltaire is no more all of French Literature than is the robustezza of Brantome. (Burton of the "Anatomy" is our only writer who can match him. ) They forget the two distinct finenesses of the Latin French and of the French "Gothic," that is of the eighteenth century, of Bernard (if one take a writer of no great importance to illustrate a definite quality), or of D'Orleans and of Froissart in verse. From this delicacy, if they can not be doing with it, they may turn easily to Villon or Basselin. Only a general distaste for
literature can be operative against all of these writers.
UNANIMISME
The English translation of Remains' "Mort de Quelqu'un" has provoked various English and American essays and reviews. His published works are "L'Ame des Hommes," 1904; "Le Bourg Regenere," 1906; "La Vie Unanime," 1908; "Premier Livre de Prieres," 1909; "La Foule qui est Ici," 1909 ; in 1910 and 191 1 "Un Etre en Marche," "Deux Poemes," "Manuel de Deification," "L'armee dans la Ville," "Puissances de Paris," and "Mort de Quelqu'un," employing the three excellent pub- lishing houses of the Mercure, Figuiere and Sansot.
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His "Reflexions" at the end of "Puissances de Paris" are so good a formulation of the Unanimiste Aesthetic, or "Pathetique," that quotation of them will do more to disabuse readers misled by stupid English criticism than would any amount of talk about Romains. I let him speak for himself
REFLEXIONS
"Many people are . now ready to recognize that there are in the world beings more real than man. We admit the life of entities greater than our own bodies. Society is not merely an arithmetical total, or a collective desig- nation. We even credit the existence of groups inter- mediate between the individual and the state. But these opinions are put forth by abstract deduction or by ex- perimentation of reason.
"People employ them to complete a system of things and with the complacencies of analogy. If they do not follow a serious study of social data, they are at least the most meritorious results of observations ; they justify the method, and uphold the laws of a science which struggles manfully to be scientific.
"These fashions of knowing would seem both costly and tenuous. Man did not wait for physiology to give him a notion of his body, in which lack of patience he was intelligent, for physiology has given him but analytic and exterior information concerning things he had long known from within. He had been conscious of his organs long before he had specified their modes of ac- tivity. As spirals of smoke from village chimneys, the profound senses of each organ had mounted toward him joy, sorrow, all the emotions are deeds more fully of consciousness than are the thoughts of man's reason.
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Reason makes a concept of man, but the heart perceives the flesh of his body.
"In like manner we must know the groups that englobe us, not by observation from without, but by an organic consciousness. And it is by no means sure that the rhythms will make their nodes in us, if we be not the centresofgroups. Wehavebuttobecomesuch. Dig deep enough in our being, emptying it of individual rev- eries, dig enough little canals so that the souls of the groups will flow of necessity into us.
"I have attempted nothing else in this book. Various groups have come here into consciousness. They are still rudimentary, and their spirit is but a perfume in the air. Beings with as little consistence as la Rue du Havre, and la Place de la Bastile, ephemeral as the com- pany of people in an omnibus, or the audience at L'Opera Comique, can not have complex organism or thoughts greatly elaborate. People will think it superfluous that I should unravel such shreds in place of re-carding once more the enormous heap of the individual soul.
"Yet I think the groups are in the most agitated stage of their evolution. Future groups will perhaps deserve less affection, and we shall conceal the basis of things more effectively.