Suspended Judgments Part 15

That Nuit du Walpurgis cla.s.sique of his, with its "jardin de Lenotre, correct, ridicule et charmant," is one of the most delicate evocations of this _genre._ One sees these strange figures, "ces spectres agites,"

as if they were pa.s.sing from twilight to twilight through the silvery mists of some pale Corot-picture, pa.s.sing into thin air, into the shadow of a shadow, into the dream of a dream, into nothingness and oblivion; but pa.s.sing gaily and wantonly--to the music of mandolines, to the blowing of fairy horns!

N'importe! ils vont toujours, les febriles fantomes, Menant leur ronde vaste et morne, et tressautant Comme dans un rayon de soleil des atomes, Et s'evaporent a l'instant

Humide et bleme ou l'aube eteint l'un apres l'autre Les cors, en sorte qu'il ne reste absolument Plus rien--absolument--qu'un jardin de Lenotre Correct, ridicule et charmant.

In the same vein, full of a diaphanous gaiety light as the flutter of dragon-fly wings, is that "caprice" in his Fetes Galantes ent.i.tled Fantoches.

Scaramouche et Pucinella Qu'un mauvais dessein ra.s.sembla Gesticulent, noirs sur la lune.

Cependant l'excellent docteur Bolonais cueille avec lenteur Des simples parmi l'herbe brune.

Lors sa fille, piquant minois Sous la charmille, en tapinois Se glisse demi-nue, en quete

De son beau pirate espagnol Dont un langoureux rossignol Clame la detresse a tue-tete.

Is that not worthy of an ill.u.s.tration by Aubrey Beardsley? And yet has it not something more naive, more infantile, than most modern trifles of that sort? Does not it somehow suggest Grimm's Fairy Stories?

There is one mood of Paul Verlaine, quite different from this, which is extremely interesting if only for its introduction into poetry of a certain impish malice which we do not as a rule a.s.sociate with poetry at all.

Such is the poem called Les Indolents, with its ribald refrain, like the laughter of a light-footed Puck flitting across the moon-lit lawns, of

Hi! Hi! Hi! les amants bizarres!

Eurent l'inexpiable tort D'ajourner une exquise mort.

Hi! Hi! Hi! les amants bizarres!

Such also are those extraordinary verses under the t.i.tle Colloque Sentimental which trouble one's imagination with so penetrating a chill of shivering disillusionment.

For some reason or other my own mind always a.s.sociates these terrible lines with a particular corner of a public garden in Halifax, Yorkshire; where I seem to have seen two figures once; seen them with a glacial pang of pain that was like the stab of a dagger of ice frozen from a poisoned well.

Dans le vieux pare solitaire et glace Deux formes ont tout a l'heure pa.s.se.

Leurs yeux sont morts et leurs levres sont molles Et l'on entend a peine leurs paroles.

Dans le vieux pare solitaire et glace Deux spectres ont evoque le pa.s.se.

--Qu'il etait bleu, le ciel, et grand l'espoir!

--L'espoir a fui, vaincu, vers le ciel noir.

I have omitted the bitter dialogue--as desolate and hollow in its frozen retorts as the echoes of iron heels in a granite sepulchre--but the whole piece has a petrified forlornness about it which somehow reminds one of certain verses of Mr. Thomas Hardy.

One of my own favourite poems of Verlaine is one whose weird and strange beauty will appeal, I fear, to few readers of these sketches; but if I could put into words the indescribable power which it exercises over my own mood I should be doing something to mitigate its remoteness from normal feelings. It is a wild mad thing, this poem--a fantasia upon a melancholy and terrible truth--but it has the power of launching one's mind down long and perilous tides of speculation.

It is like a "nocturne" written by a musician who has wandered through all the cities of Europe with a company of beggar-players, playing masques of death to the occupants of all the cemeteries. He names the poem Grotesques; and it comes among the verses called Eaux-Fortes, dedicated to Francois Coppee.

C'est que, sur leurs aigres guitares Crispant la main des libertes Ils nasillent des chants bizarres, Nostalgiques et revoltes;

C'est enfin que dans leurs prunelles Rit et pleure--fastidieux-- L'amour des choses eternelles, Des vieux morts et des anciens dieux!

Les juins brulent et les decembres Gelent votre chair jusqu'aux os, Et la fievre envahit vos membres Qui se dechirent aux roseaux.

Tout vous repousse et tout vous navre Et quand la mort viendra pour vous Maigre et froide, votre cadavre Sera dedaigne par les loups!

I cannot resist the feeling that where the inmost essential genius of Verlaine is to be found is neither in his religious poems nor his love-poems; no, nor even in his singular fantasies.

I find it in certain little evasive verses, the fleeting magic of which evaporates, under any attempt to capture or define it, like the perfume from that broken alabaster box from which the woman anointed the feet of the Saviour. Such a poem is that strangely imaginative one, with a lovely silveriness of tone in its moth-like movements, and full of a mystery, soft, soothing and gentle, like the whisper of a child murmuring its happiness in its sleep, which is called Impression Fausse for some delicate reason that I, alas! lack the wit to fathom.

Dame souris trotte Noire dans le gris du soir Dame souris trotte Grise dans le noir.

On sonne la cloche, Dormez, les bons prisonniers, On sonne la cloche: Faut que vous dormiez,

Dame souris trotte, Rose dans les rayons bleus, Dame souris trotte Debout, paresseux!

Perhaps of all the poems he ever wrote the one most full of his peculiar and especial atmosphere--grey and sad and cool and deep and unlike anything else in the world--is that ent.i.tled Reversibilities; though here again I am out of my depths as to the full significance of this t.i.tle.

Entends les pompes qui font Le cri des chats.

Des sifflets viennent et vont Comme en pourchas.

Ah, dans ces tristes decors Les Dejas sont les Encors!

O les vagues Angelus!

(Qui viennent d'ou) Vois s'allumer les Saluts Du fond d'un trou.

Ah, dans ces mornes sejours Les Jamais sont les Toujours!

Quels reves epouvantes Vous grands murs blancs!

Que de sanglots repetes, Fous ou dolents!

Ah, dans ces piteux retraits Les Toujours sont les Jamais!

Tu meurs doucereus.e.m.e.nt, Obscurement, Sans qu'on veille, O coeur aimant, Sans testament!

Ah, dans ces deuils sans rachats Les Encors sont les Dejas!

It is perhaps because his essential kingdom is not bound by the time-limits of any century or age but has its place in that mysterious country beyond the margins of all change, where the dim vague feelings of humanity take to themselves shadowy and immortal forms and whisper and murmur of what except in music can never be uttered, that he appeals to us so much more than other recent poets.

In that twilight-land of delicate mystery, by those pale sea-banks dividing what we feel from what we dream, the silvery willows of indefinable memory bow themselves more sadly, the white poplars of faint hope shiver more tenderly, the far-off voices of past and future mingle with a more thrilling sweetness, than in the garish daylight of any circ.u.mscribed time or place.

In the twilight-country over which he rules, this fragile child of the clairvoyant senses, this uncrowned king of beggars and dreams, it may truly and indeed seem that "les jamais sont les toujours."

His poetry is the poetry of water-colours. It is water seen through water. It is white painted upon white. It is sad with the whispers of falling rain. It is grey with the pa.s.sage of softly-sliding mists. It is cool and fresh with the dews of morning and of evening.

Like a leaf whirling down from one of those tremulous poplar-trees that hang over the Seine between the Pont Neuf and the Quai Voltaire--whirling lightly and softly down, till it touches the flowing water and is borne away--each of these delicate filmy verses of his falls upon our consciousness; draws up from the depths its strange indescribable response; and is lost in the shadows.

One is persuaded by the poetry of Verlaine that the loveliest things are the most evasive things, the things which come most lightly and pa.s.s most swiftly. One realises from his poetry that the rarest intimations of life's profound secret are just those that can only be expressed in hints, in gestures, in whispers, in airy touches and fleeting signs.