The Spell of Belgium Part 13

"Monna Vanna" was his first play in which the action was a.s.signed to a definite period. It was supposed to take place at the end of the fifteenth century. A few years ago, it was well given in this country, Mary Garden impersonating the heroine. Her rendering of the part was widely discussed. "Sister Beatrice" was also produced in America, and "Mary Magdalene" has been translated into English, as well as "The Bluebird." The last named was beautifully given in New York, and was superbly staged and very spectacular. It was so artistic, so original and mysterious, and unlike anything that one had ever seen before, you knew at once that it was the work of Maeterlinck. People swarmed to see it, people went to hear it read, and people took it home to read.

Maeterlinck is now over fifty years old, and is at the height of his popularity. He spends the winter at Katchema, near Gra.s.se, in the south of France, the summers at the ancient Benedictine Abbey of St.

Wandrille. During the war he has been lecturing in behalf of his native country.

I quote from an address made by him in Milan: "It is not for me to recall here the facts which hurled Belgium into the abyss of glorious distress where she now struggles. She has been punished, as no nation ever was punished, for doing her duty as no nation ever did it. She has saved the world, in the full knowledge that she could not be saved.

"She saved the world by throwing herself across the path of the barbarian horde, by allowing herself to be trampled to death in order to give the champions of justice the necessary time, not to succour her--she was aware that she could not be succoured in time--but to a.s.semble troops enough to free Latin civilization from the greatest danger with which it has ever been threatened.

"The spectacle of an entire people, great and humble, rich and poor, savants and unlettered, sacrificing themselves deliberately for something which is invisible--that, I declare, has never been seen before, and I say it without fear that any one can contradict me by searching through the history of mankind. They did what had never been done before, and it is to be hoped, for the good of mankind, that no nation may ever be called upon again to do it."

Among other well-known Belgian authors Eugene Demolder may be mentioned.

In his historical novel, "Le Jardinier de la Pompadour," he has made the eighteenth century live again in pages "vibrant with prismatic colours."

A charming characteristic of this book is the exquisite pictures of flowers and woods. The critic Gilbert quotes a page, of which he says, "It opens the story like a whiff of perfumes, for it symbolizes the charm and the freshness of rural France in flower."

The works of Leopold Courouble are greatly enjoyed. He represents the humour of Brabancon fiction. As the old painters of Flanders gave expression to Flemish gaiety in their immortal canvases, so has Courouble concentrated in "Les Fiancailles de Joseph Kaekebroeck" the whole spirit of a race.

Le Vicomte de Spoelberch de Lovenjoul is noted as a critic and essayist, and has had five of his works crowned by the French Academy. Henri Pirenne, author of "Histoire de la Belgique," is at the head of the list of Belgian historians today. (There have been a number of patriotic books written foreshadowing this war. Balzac wrote "France et Belgique,"

and it has been said that Balzac was the inspiration of the modern writers of Belgium.)

Gregoire le Roi, Maeterlinck's friend, is described by Bith.e.l.l as "the poet of retrospection"--"the hermit bowed down by silver hair, bending at eventide over the embers of the past, visited by weird guests draped with legend." It is said "the weft of his verse is torn by translation, it cannot be grasped, it is wafted through shadows."

Charles van Lerberghe wrote his play of the new school, "Les Flaireurs,"

in 1889, before Maeterlinck had published anything, but his work resembles the latter's somewhat in style. He was born in 1862, of a Flemish father and a Walloon mother, which resulted in a sort of dual personality. Van Lerberghe was "a man for whom modern life had no more existence than for a mediaeval recluse," and he pa.s.sed his happiest years in an old-world village in the Ardennes. He died in 1907, having published besides the play already mentioned, only three little books of poetry, "Entrevisions," "La Chanson d'Eve," and "Pan"--small but cla.s.sic. Maeterlinck speaks of his verse as having a sort of "lyric silence, a quality of sound such as we have not heard in our French poetry." The early poems of Rossetti are suggested by his work.

"If poetry is music van Lerberghe is a poet. The charm of his verses is unique," writes Bith.e.l.l. Are not these stanzas on "Rain" exquisite?

"The rain, my sister dear, The summer rain, warm and clear, Gently flees, gently flies, Through the moist atmosphere.

"Her collar of white pearls Has come undone in the skies.

Blackbirds, sing with all your might, Dance, magpies!

Among the branches downward pressed, Dance, flowers, dance, every nest, All that comes from the skies is blest."

"Fernand Severin, who was lecturer in French literature at the University of Ghent, is a poet of great charm. His diction is apparently that of Racine, but in substance he is essentially modern." The following lines, from the translation by Bith.e.l.l, will give an idea of the grace and beauty of his style:

"Her sweet voice was a music in mine ear; And in the perfume of the atmosphere Which, in that eve, her shadowy presence shed, 'Sister of mystery,' trembling I said, 'Too like an angel to be what you seem, Go not away too soon, beloved dream!'"

Albert Mockel is a fine musician and an excellent critic, as well as a good poet, a combination which is very rare. He is learned, subtle and brilliant. "Chantefable un peu Nave" and "Clartes" contain musical notations of rhythms.

I give here part of one of his poems called

THE CHANDELIER

"Jewels, ribbons, naked necks, And the living bouquet that the corsage decks; Women, undulating the soft melody Of gestures languishing, surrendering-- And the vain, scattered patter of swift words-- Silken vestures floating, faces bright, Furtive converse, gliding glances, futile kiss Of eyes that flitting round alight like birds, And flee, and come again coquettishly; Laughter, and lying ... and all flying away To the strains that spin the frivolous swarm around."

I also give an extract from his "Song of Running Water," that is quite lovely.

"O forest! O sweet forest, thou invitest me to rest And linger in thy shade with moss and shavegra.s.s dressed, Imprisoning me in swoon of soft caresses That o'er me droop thy dense and leafy tresses."

"Verhaeren is the triumph of the Belgian race, the greatest of modern poets," writes Stefan Zweig, who has translated many of his works.

Verhaeren is much admired by the Germans and Austrians, but is not so well known in this country, as few of his books have been translated into English. As Rubens with his brush depicted carousals and excesses, so did Verhaeren depict the wildness and madness of youth with his clever pen.

Emile Verhaeren was born in Flanders at St. Amand on the Scheldt, the twenty-first of May, 1855. His parents were considered well-to-do and owned a house and garden of their own on the edge of the town, overlooking the yellow cornfields and the wide river. It was here Emile's boyhood was spent, watching the peasants sow and reap, and the white sails of the boats slowly drifting down to the great ocean. He was blue-eyed and golden-haired in those days. The people loved him then, and they love him now. As a boy he was sent to the Jesuit College of Sainte Barbe, in Ghent, and it was hoped that he might in time join the order. There he began writing verses, and there too he met the poet, Georges Rodenbach, and Maeterlinck and Charles van Lerberghe, all of whom later became famous. Emile refused to become a priest and he did not wish to enter his uncle's workshop, so when his courses were finished at Sainte Barbe, he was sent to Louvain to study law. His student days were wild in the extreme.

[Ill.u.s.tration: EMILE VERHAEREN.]

In 1881 he went to Brussels to practice, but he was not a success as a lawyer. Here he met artists and authors, and like many poets became eccentric in his dress. "Les Flamandes" is the name of his first book.

When it was published his conservative parents were scandalized and the critics were very severe, but all had to admit the primitive vitality and savage strength of his work. "Les Moines" is his second book. These sonnets describe the monks and are unlike his other poems.

As Verhaeren was unbridled in his studies as well as his follies, he had a severe nervous breakdown. While convalescing he wrote "Les Soirs, Les Debacles, Les Flambeaux Noirs," which are extraordinary descriptions of his physical and mental sensations during his illness.

After he recovered he married and traveled in Europe and in England.

Then for a time he gave lectures at the Universite Libre in Brussels.

"Les Villes Tentaculaires," which describes the monster city, is called magnificent. "Les Aubes" and the "Campagnes Hallucinees" were published at the same time, and "La Foule" and "Vers la Mer" in the book ent.i.tled "Les Visages de la Vie" are also fine.

Among Verhaeren's plays, "Le Cloitre" is taken from his book of poems, called "Les Moines." It is peculiar in having no woman in the cast, but it was well given and proved successful. "Les Aubes" and "Helene de Sparte" were others of his plays.

The three following poems by this author are marvelous pieces of description and thoroughly characteristic of Belgium:

A CORNER OF THE QUAY

"When the wind sulks, and the dune dries, The old salts with uneasy eyes Hour after hour peer at the skies.

"All are silent; their hands turning, A brown juice from their lips they wipe; Never a sound save, in their pipe, The dry tobacco burning.

"That storm the almanac announces, Where is it? They are puzzled.

The sea has smoothed her flounces.

Winter is muzzled.

"The cute ones shake their pate, And cross their arms, and puff, But mate by mate they wait, And think the squall is late, But coming sure enough.

"With fingers slow, sedate, Their finished pipe they fill; Pursuing, every salt, Without a minute's halt, The same idea still.

"A boat sails up the bay, As tranquil as the day; Its keel a long net trails, Covered with glittering scales.

"Out come the men: What ho?

When will the tempest come?

With pipe in mouth, still dumb?

With bare foot on sabot, The salts wait in a row.

"Here they lounge about, Where all year long the stout Fishers' dames Sell, from their wooden frames, Herrings and anchovies, And by each stall a stove is, To warm them with its flames.

"Here they spit together, Spying out the weather.

Here they yawn and doze; Backs bent with many a squall, Rubbing it in rows, Grease the wall.

"And though the almanac Is wrong about the squall, The old salts lean their back Against the wall, And wait in rows together, Watching the sea and the weather."

FOGS