Poems of Emile Verhaeren Part 1

Poems of Emile Verhaeren.

by Emile Verhaeren.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

Emile Verhaeren, remarkable among of the brilliant group of writers representing "Young Belgium," and one who has been recognized by the literary world of France as holding a foremost place among the lyric poets of the day was born at St. Amand, near Antwerp, in 1855. His childhood was pa.s.sed on the banks of the Scheldt, in the midst of the wide-spreading Flemish plains, a country of mist and flood, of d.y.k.es and marshes, and the impressions he received from the mysterious, melancholy character of these surroundings, have produced a marked and lasting influence upon his work. Yet the other characteristics with which it is stamped--the wealth of imagination, the gloomy force, the wonderful descriptive power and sense of colour, which set the landscape before one as a picture, suggest rather the possibility of Spanish blood in the poet's veins--and again, his somewhat morbid subjectivity and tendency to self-a.n.a.lysis mark him as the child of the latter end of our nineteenth century.

Verhaeren entered early in life upon the literary career. After some time spent at a college in Ghent, he became a student at the University of Louvain, and here he founded and edited a journal called "_La Semaine_," in which work he was a.s.sisted by the singer Van Dyck, and by his friend and present publisher, Edmond Deman. He also formed, about this time, a close friendship with Maeterlinck. In 1881, Verhaeren was called to the Bar at Brussels, but soon gave up his legal career to devote himself entirely to literature. In 1883 he published his first volume of poems, and shortly afterwards became one of the editors of "_L'Art Moderne_," to which, as well as to other contemporary periodicals, he was for many years a contributor. In 1892 he founded, with the help of two other friends, the "Section of Art" in the "House of the People,"

a popular inst.i.tution in Brussels, where performances of the best music, as well as lectures upon literary and artistic subjects, were given. In spite, however, of the work which all this entailed, and of the many interests created by his ardent appreciation of the various branches of art and literature, Verhaeren continued to labour unceasingly at his poetical work, and between 1883 and 1897 brought out successively eleven small volumes: _Les Flamandes, Les Moines, Les Soirs, Les Debacles, Les Flambeaux Noirs, Les Apparus dans mes chemins, Les Campagnes Hallucinees, Les Villages Illusoires, Les Villes Tentaculaires, Les Heures Claires,_ and _Les Aubes_.

Throughout this entire series the intellectual and spiritual development of the poet may be closely traced--from the materialism which pervades _Les Flamandes_, and the despairing pessimism and lurid emotion--the throes of a self-centred soul in revolt against fate--which are so powerfully portrayed in _Les Debacles_ and _Les Flambeaux Noirs_, and are apparent even in the opening pages of _Les Apparus_ dans mes chemins--to the tender, hopeful mysticism which marks the latter poems in that volume, and the wonderful sympathy with Nature, even in her saddest aspects--the subtle power of endowing those aspects with a profound and enn.o.bling symbolism, which characterise the most beautiful of the poems in Les Villages Illusoires. Les Heures Claires is the name given to a volume of love-songs, an exquisite record of golden hours spent in a garden at spring-time--spring-time in a double sense.

The task of making an adequate and typical selection from a poet's work is always difficult, and in this case it has been decided to limit the field of selection, at least for the present, to the three last-named volumes, which embody what may, I think, be considered as Verhaeren's highest achievement in the realm of lyrical poetry.

In style, Verhaeren is essentially the apostle of the "Vers libre"; and his handling of rhyme and rhythm, his coining of words where he finds the French vocabulary insufficient, have called down upon him some criticism from those of his French contemporaries who are sticklers for the older rules and more conventional forms of versification. But however this may be, it remains an undeniable fact that Verhaeren has at his command a rare and powerful poetic eloquence--a wealth of imagery, a depth of thought and a subtlety of expression which perhaps are not to be imprisoned behind the bars of a too rigid convention. English readers have already been accustomed by their own poets to the "vers libre," and it is not so much, therefore, for my adherence to this form, as for my failure adequately to render Verhaeren's peculiar and striking beauty of language, that I beg their indulgence for the following translations.

POEMS

From "LES VILLAGES ILLUSOIRES"

RAIN

Long as unending threads, the long-drawn rain Interminably, with its nails of grey, Athwart the dull grey day, Rakes the green window-pane-- So infinitely, endlessly, the rain, The long, long rain.

The rain.

Since yesternight it keeps unravelling Down from the frayed and flaccid rags that cling About the sullen sky.

The low black sky; Since yesternight, so slowly, patiently.

Unravelling its threads upon the roads.

Upon the roads and lanes, with even fall Continual.

Along the miles That 'twixt the meadows and the suburbs lie, By roads interminably bent, the files Of waggons, with their awnings arched and tall.

Struggling in sweat and steam, toil slowly by With outline vague as of a funeral.

Into the ruts, unbroken, regular, Stretching out parallel so far That when night comes they seem to join the sky.

For hours the water drips; And every tree and every dwelling weeps.

Drenched as they are with it.

With the long rain, tenaciously, with rain Indefinite.

The rivers, through each rotten d.y.k.e that yields.

Discharge their swollen wave upon the fields.

Where coils of drowned hay Float far away; And the wild breeze Buffets the alders and the walnut-trees; Knee-deep in water great black oxen stand, Lifting their bellowings sinister on high To the distorted sky; As now the night creeps onward, all the land, Thicket and plain, Grows c.u.mbered with her clinging shades immense.

And still there is the rain, The long, long rain.

Like soot, so fine and dense.

The long, long rain.

Rain--and its threads identical, And its nails systematical, Weaving the garment, mesh by mesh amain, Of dest.i.tution for each house and wall, And fences that enfold The villages, neglected, grey, and old: Chaplets of rags and linen shreds that fall In frayed-out wisps from upright poles and tall.

Blue pigeon-houses glued against the thatch, And windows with a patch Of dingy paper on each lowering pane, Houses with straight-set gutters, side by side Across the broad stone gambles crucified, Mills, uniform, forlorn.

Each rising from its hillock like a horn, Steeples afar and chapels round about, The rain, the long, long rain, Through all the winter wears and wears them out.

Rain, with its many wrinkles, the long rain With its grey nails, and with its watery mane; The long rain of these lands of long ago, The rain, eternal in its torpid flow!

THE FERRYMAN

The ferryman, a green reed 'twixt his teeth, With hand on oar, against the current strong Had rowed and rowed so long.

But she, alas! whose voice was hailing him Across the far waves dim.

Still further o'er the far waves seemed to float, Still further backwards, 'mid the mists, remote.

The cas.e.m.e.nts with their eyes.

The dial-faces of the towers that rise Upon the sh.o.r.e, Watched, as he strove and laboured more and more.

With frantic bending of the back in two, And start of savage muscles strained anew.

One oar was suddenly riven, And by the current driven, With lash of heavy breakers, out to sea.

But she, whose voice that hailed him he could hear There 'mid the mist and wind, she seemed to wring Her hands with gestures yet more maddening Toward him who drew not near.

The ferryman with his surviving oar Fell harder yet to work, and more and more He strove, till every joint did crack and start, And fevered terror shook his very heart.

The rudder broke Beneath one sharp, rude stroke; That, too, the current drove relentlessly, A dreary shred of wreckage, out to sea.

The cas.e.m.e.nts by the pier, Like eyes immense and feverish open wide, The dials of the towers--those widows drear Upstanding straight from mile to mile beside The banks of rivers--obstinately gaze Upon this madman, in his headstrong craze Prolonging his mad voyage 'gainst the tide.

But she, who yonder in the mist-clouds hailed Him still so desperately, she wailed and wailed, With head outstretched in fearful, straining haste Toward the unknown of the outstretched waste.