CHAPTER XX

THE CONCLUSION I have accomplished, to the best of my ability, this work which has occupied me for 15 years, on a subject near to me—that of art. By saying that this subject has occupied me for 15 years, I do not mean that I have been writing this book 15 years, but only that I began to write on art 15 years ago, thinking that when once I undertook the task I should be able to accomplish it without a break. It proved, however, that my views on the matter then were so far from clear that I could not arrange them in a way that satisfied me. From that time I have never ceased to think on the subject, and I have recommenced to write on it 6 or 7 times; but each time, after writing a considerable part of it, I have found myself unable to bring the work to a satisfactory conclusion, and have had to put it aside. Now I have finished it; and however badly I may have performed the task, my hope is that my fundamental thought as to the false direction the art of our society has taken and is following, as to the reasons of this, and as to the real destination of art, is correct, and that therefore my work will not be without avail. But that this should come to pass, and that art should really abandon its false path and take the new direction, it is necessary that another equally important human spiritual activity,—science,—in intimate dependence on which art always rests, should abandon the false path which it too, like art, is following. Science and art are as closely bound together as the lungs and the heart, so that if one organ is vitiated the other cannot act rightly. True science investigates and brings to human perception such truths and such knowledge as the people of a given time and society consider most important. Art transmits these truths from the region of perception to the region of emotion. Therefore, if the path chosen by science be false so also will be the path taken by art. Science and art are like a certain kind of barge with kedge-anchors which used to ply on our rivers. Science, like the boats which took the anchors up-stream and made them secure, gives direction to the forward movement; while art, like the windlass worked on the barge to draw it towards the anchor, causes the actual progression. And thus a false activity of science inevitably causes a correspondingly false activity of art. As art in general is the transmission of every kind of feeling, but in the limited sense of the word we only call that art which transmits feelings acknowledged by us to be important, so also science in general is the transmission of all possible knowledge; but in the limited sense of the word we call science that which transmits knowledge acknowledged by us to be important. And the degree of importance, both of the feelings transmitted by art and of the information transmitted by science, is decided by the religious perception of the given time and society, _i.e._ by the common understanding of the purpose of their lives possessed by the people of that time or society. That which most of all contributes to the fulfilment of that purpose will be studied most; that which contributes less will be studied less; that which does not contribute at all to the fulfilment of the purpose of human life will be entirely neglected, or, if studied, such study will not be accounted science. So it always has been, and so it should be now; for such is the nature of human knowledge and of human life. But the science of the upper classes of our time, which not only does not acknowledge any religion, but considers every religion to be mere superstition, could not and cannot make such distinctions. Scientists of our day affirm that they study _everything_ impartially; but as everything is too much (is in fact an infinite number of objects), and as it is impossible to study all alike, this is only said in the theory, while in practice not everything is studied, and study is applied far from impartially, only that being studied which, on the one hand, is most wanted by, and on the other hand, is pleasantest to those people who occupy themselves with science. And what the people, belonging to the upper classes, who are occupying themselves with science most want is the maintenance of the system under which those classes retain their privileges; and what is pleasantest are such things as satisfy idle curiosity, do not demand great mental efforts, and can be practically applied. And therefore one side of science, including theology and philosophy adapted to the existing order, as also history and political economy of the same sort, are chiefly occupied in proving that the existing order is the very one which ought to exist; that it has come into existence and continues to exist by the operation of immutable laws not amenable to human will, and that all efforts to change it are therefore harmful and wrong. The other part, experimental science,—including mathematics, astronomy, chemistry, physics, botany, and all the natural sciences,—is exclusively occupied with things that have no direct relation to human life: with what is curious, and with things of which practical application advantageous to people of the upper classes can be made. And to justify that selection of objects of study which (in conformity to their own position) the men of science of our times have made, they have devised a theory of science for science’s sake, quite similar to the theory of art for art’s sake. As by the theory of art for art’s sake it appears that occupation with all those things that please us—is art, so, by the theory of science for science’s sake, the study of that which interests us—is science. So that one side of science, instead of studying how people should live in order to fulfil their mission in life, demonstrates the righteousness and immutability of the bad and false arrangements of life which exist around us; while the other part, experimental science, occupies itself with questions of simple curiosity or with technical improvements. The first of these divisions of science is harmful, not only because it confuses people’s perceptions and gives false decisions, but also because it exists, and occupies the ground which should belong to true science. It does this harm, that each man, in order to approach the study of the most important questions of life, must first refute these erections of lies which have during ages been piled around each of the most essential questions of human life, and which are propped up by all the strength of human ingenuity. The second division—the one of which modern science is so particularly proud, and which is considered by many people to be the only real science—is harmful in that it diverts attention from the really important subjects to insignificant subjects, and is also directly harmful in that, under the evil system of society which the first division of science justifies and supports, a great part of the technical gains of science are turned not to the advantage but to the injury of mankind. Indeed it is only to those who are devoting their lives to such study that it seems as if all the inventions which are made in the sphere of natural science were very important and useful things. And to these people it seems so only when they do not look around them and do not see what is really important. They only need tear themselves away from the psychological microscope under which they examine the objects of their study, and look about them, in order to see how insignificant is all that has afforded them such naïve pride, all that knowledge not only of geometry of n-dimensions, spectrum analysis of the Milky Way, the form of atoms, dimensions of human skulls of the Stone Age, and similar trifles, but even our knowledge of micro-organisms, X-rays, etc., in comparison with such knowledge as we have thrown aside and handed over to the perversions of the professors of theology, jurisprudence, political economy, financial science, etc. We need only look around us to perceive that the activity proper to real science is not the study of whatever happens to interest us, but the study of how man’s life should be established,—the study of those questions of religion, morality, and social life, without the solution of which all our knowledge of nature will be harmful or insignificant. We are highly delighted and very proud that our science renders it possible to utilise the energy of a waterfall and make it work in factories, or that we have pierced tunnels through mountains, and so forth. But the pity of it is that we make the force of the waterfall labour, not for the benefit of the workmen, but to enrich capitalists who produce articles of luxury or weapons of man-destroying war. The same dynamite with which we blast the mountains to pierce tunnels, we use for wars, from which latter we not only do not intend to abstain, but which we consider inevitable, and for which we unceasingly prepare. If we are now able to inoculate preventatively with diphtheritic microbes, to find a needle in a body by means of X-rays, to straighten a hunched-back, cure syphilis, and perform wonderful operations, we should not be proud of these acquisitions either (even were they all established beyond dispute) if we fully understood the true purpose of real science. If but one-tenth of the efforts now spent on objects of pure curiosity or of merely practical application were expended on real science organising the life of man, more than half the people now sick would not have the illnesses from which a small minority of them now get cured in hospitals. There would be no poor-blooded and deformed children growing up in factories, no death-rates, as now, of 50 per cent. among children, no deterioration of whole generations, no prostitution, no syphilis, and no murdering of hundreds of thousands in wars, nor those horrors of folly and of misery which our present science considers a necessary condition of human life. We have so perverted the conception of science that it seems strange to men of our day to allude to sciences which should prevent the mortality of children, prostitution, syphilis, the deterioration of whole generations, and the wholesale murder of men. It seems to us that science is only then real science when a man in a laboratory pours liquids from one jar into another, or analyses the spectrum, or cuts up frogs and porpoises, or weaves in a specialised, scientific jargon an obscure network of conventional phrases—theological, philosophical, historical, juridical, or politico-economical—semi-intelligible to the man himself, and intended to demonstrate that what now is, is what should be. But science, true science,—such science as would really deserve the respect which is now claimed by the followers of one (the least important) part of science,—is not at all such as this: real science lies in knowing what we should and what we should not believe, in knowing how the associated life of man should and should not be constituted; how to treat sexual relations, how to educate children, how to use the land, how to cultivate it oneself without oppressing other people, how to treat foreigners, how to treat animals, and much more that is important for the life of man. Such has true science ever been and such it should be. And such science is springing up in our times; but, on the one hand, such true science is denied and refuted by all those scientific people who defend the existing order of society, and, on the other hand, it is considered empty, unnecessary, unscientific science by those who are engrossed in experimental science. For instance, books and sermons appear, demonstrating the antiquatedness and absurdity of Church dogmas, as well as the necessity of establishing a reasonable religious perception suitable to our times, and all the theology that is considered to be real science is only engaged in refuting these works and in exercising human intelligence again and again to find support and justification for superstitions long since out-lived, and which have now become quite meaningless. Or a sermon appears showing that land should not be an object of private possession, and that the institution of private property in land is a chief cause of the poverty of the masses. Apparently science, real science, should welcome such a sermon and draw further deductions from this position. But the science of our times does nothing of the kind: on the contrary, political economy demonstrates the opposite position, namely, that landed property, like every other form of property, must be more and more concentrated in the hands of a small number of owners. Again, in the same way, one would suppose it to be the business of real science to demonstrate the irrationality, unprofitableness, and immorality of war and of executions; or the inhumanity and harmfulness of prostitution; or the absurdity, harmfulness, and immorality of using narcotics or of eating animals; or the irrationality, harmfulness, and antiquatedness of patriotism. And such works exist, but are all considered unscientific; while works to prove that all these things ought to continue, and works intended to satisfy an idle thirst for knowledge lacking any relation to human life, are considered to be scientific. The deviation of the science of our time from its true purpose is strikingly illustrated by those ideals which are put forward by some scientists, and are not denied, but admitted, by the majority of scientific men. These ideals are expressed not only in stupid, fashionable books, describing the world as it will be in 1000 or 3000 years’ time, but also by sociologists who consider themselves serious men of science. These ideals are that food instead of being obtained from the land by agriculture, will be prepared in laboratories by chemical means, and that human labour will be almost entirely superseded by the utilisation of natural forces. Man will not, as now, eat an egg laid by a hen he has kept, or bread grown on his field, or an apple from a tree he has reared and which has blossomed and matured in his sight; but he will eat tasty, nutritious, food which will be prepared in laboratories by the conjoint labour of many people in which he will take a small part. Man will hardly need to labour, so that all men will be able to yield to idleness as the upper, ruling classes now yield to it. Nothing shows more plainly than these ideals to what a degree the science of our times has deviated from the true path. The great majority of men in our times lack good and sufficient food (as well as dwellings and clothes and all the first necessaries of life). And this great majority of men is compelled, to the injury of its well-being, to labour continually beyond its strength. Both these evils can easily be removed by abolishing mutual strife, luxury, and the unrighteous distribution of wealth, in a word by the abolition of a false and harmful order and the establishment of a reasonable, human manner of life. But science considers the existing order of things to be as immutable as the movements of the planets, and therefore assumes that the purpose of science is—not to elucidate the falseness of this order and to arrange a new, reasonable way of life—but, under the existing order of things, to feed everybody and enable all to be as idle as the ruling classes, who live a depraved life, now are. And, meanwhile, it is forgotten that nourishment with corn, vegetables, and fruit raised from the soil by one’s own labour is the pleasantest, healthiest, easiest, and most natural nourishment, and that the work of using one’s muscles is as necessary a condition of life as is the oxidation of the blood by breathing. To invent means whereby people might, while continuing our false division of property and labour, be well nourished by means of chemically-prepared food, and might make the forces of nature work for them, is like inventing means to pump oxygen into the lungs of a man kept in a closed chamber the air of which is bad, when all that is needed is to cease to confine the man in the closed chamber. In the vegetable and animal kingdoms a laboratory for the production of food has been arranged, such as can be surpassed by no professors, and to enjoy the fruits of this laboratory, and to participate in it, man has only to yield to that ever joyful impulse to labour, without which man’s life is a torment. And lo and behold, the scientists of our times, instead of employing all their strength to abolish whatever hinders man from utilising the good things prepared for him, acknowledge the conditions under which man is deprived of these blessings to be unalterable, and instead of arranging the life of man so that he might work joyfully and be fed from the soil, they devise methods which will cause him to become an artificial abortion. It is like not helping a man out of confinement into the fresh air, but devising means, instead, to pump into him the necessary quantity of oxygen and arranging so that he may live in a stifling cellar instead of living at home. Such false ideals could not exist if science were not on a false path. And yet the feelings transmitted by art grow up on the bases supplied by science. But what feelings can such misdirected science evoke? One side of this science evokes antiquated feelings, which humanity has used up, and which, in our times, are bad and exclusive. The other side, occupied with the study of subjects unrelated to the conduct of human life, by its very nature cannot serve as a basis for art. So that art in our times, to be art, must either open up its own road independently of science, or must take direction from the unrecognised science which is denounced by the orthodox section of science. And this is what art, when it even partially fulfils its mission, is doing. It is to be hoped that the work I have tried to perform concerning art will be performed also for science—that the falseness of the theory of science for science’s sake will be demonstrated; that the necessity of acknowledging Christian teaching in its true meaning will be clearly shown, that on the basis of that teaching a reappraisement will be made of the knowledge we possess, and of which we are so proud; that the secondariness and insignificance of experimental science, and the primacy and importance of religious, moral, and social knowledge will be established; and that such knowledge will not, as now, be left to the guidance of the upper classes only, but will form a chief interest of all free, truth-loving men, such as those who, not in agreement with the upper classes but in their despite, have always forwarded the real science of life. Astronomical, physical, chemical, and biological science, as also technical and medical science, will be studied only in so far as they can help to free mankind from religious, juridical, or social deceptions, or can serve to promote the well-being of all men, and not of any single class. Only then will science cease to be what it is now—on the one hand a system of sophistries, needed for the maintenance of the existing worn-out order of society, and, on the other hand, a shapeless mass of miscellaneous knowledge, for the most part good for little or nothing—and become a shapely and organic whole, having a definite and reasonable purpose comprehensible to all men, namely, the purpose of bringing to the consciousness of men the truths that flow from the religious perception of our times. And only then will art, which is always dependent on science, be what it might and should be, an organ coequally important with science for the life and progress of mankind. Art is not a pleasure, a solace, or an amusement; art is a great matter. Art is an organ of human life, transmitting man’s reasonable perception into feeling. In our age the common religious perception of men is the consciousness of the brotherhood of man—we know that the well-being of man lies in union with his fellow-men. True science should indicate the various methods of applying this consciousness to life. Art should transform this perception into feeling. The task of art is enormous. Through the influence of real art, aided by science guided by religion, that peaceful co-operation of man which is now obtained by external means—by our law-courts, police, charitable institutions, factory inspection, etc.—should be obtained by man’s free and joyous activity. Art should cause violence to be set aside. And it is only art that can accomplish this. All that now, independently of the fear of violence and punishment, makes the social life of man possible (and already now this is an enormous part of the order of our lives)—all this has been brought about by art. If by art it has been inculcated how people should treat religious objects, their parents, their children, their wives, their relations, strangers, foreigners; how to conduct themselves to their elders, their superiors, to those who suffer, to their enemies, and to animals; and if this has been obeyed through generations by millions of people, not only unenforced by any violence, but so that the force of such customs can be shaken in no way but by means of art: then, by the same art, other customs, more in accord with the religious perception of our time, may be evoked. If art has been able to convey the sentiment of reverence for images, for the eucharist, and for the king’s person; of shame at betraying a comrade, devotion to a flag, the necessity of revenge for an insult, the need to sacrifice one’s labour for the erection and adornment of churches, the duty of defending one’s honour or the glory of one’s native land—then that same art can also evoke reverence for the dignity of every man and for the life of every animal; can make men ashamed of luxury, of violence, of revenge, or of using for their pleasure that of which others are in need; can compel people freely, gladly, and without noticing it, to sacrifice themselves in the service of man. The task for art to accomplish is to make that feeling of brotherhood and love of one’s neighbour, now attained only by the best members of the society, the customary feeling and the instinct of all men. By evoking, under imaginary conditions, the feeling of brotherhood and love, religious art will train men to experience those same feelings under similar circumstances in actual life; it will lay in the souls of men the rails along which the actions of those whom art thus educates will naturally pass. And universal art, by uniting the most different people in one common feeling, by destroying separation, will educate people to union, will show them, not by reason but by life itself, the joy of universal union reaching beyond the bounds set by life. The destiny of art in our time is to transmit from the realm of reason to the realm of feeling the truth that well-being for men consists in being united together, and to set up, in place of the existing reign of force, that kingdom of God, _i.e._ of love, which we all recognise to be the highest aim of human life. Possibly, in the future, science may reveal to art yet newer and higher ideals, which art may realise; but, in our time, the destiny of art is clear and definite. The task for Christian art is to establish brotherly union among men. APPENDICES APPENDIX I. This is the first page of Mallarmé’s book _Divagations_:— LE PHÉNOMÈNE FUTUR. Un ciel pâle, sur le monde qui finit de décrépitude, va peut-être partir avec les nuages: les lambeaux de la pourpre usée des couchants déteignent dans une rivière dormant à l’horizon submergé de rayons et d’eau. Les arbres s’ennuient, et, sous leur feuillage blanchi (de la poussière du temps plutôt que celle des chemins) monte la maison en toile de Montreur de choses Passées: maint réverbère attend le crépuscule et ravive les visages d’une malheureuse foule, vaincue par la maladie immortelle et le péché des siècles, d’hommes près de leurs chétives complices enceintes des fruits misérables avec lesquels périra la terre. Dans le silence inquiet de tous les yeux suppliant là-bas le soleil qui, sous l’eau, s’enfonce avec le désespoir d’un cri, voici le simple boniment: “Nulle enseigne ne vous régale du spectacle intérieur, car il n’est pas maintenant un peintre capable d’en donner une ombre triste. J’apporte, vivante (et préservée à travers les ans par la science souveraine) une Femme d’autrefois. Quelque folie, originelle et naïve, une extase d’or, je ne sais quoi! par elle nommé sa chevelure, se ploie avec la grâce des étoffes autour d’un visage qu’ éclaire la nudité sanglante de ses lèvres. A la place du vêtement vain, elle a un corps; et les yeux, semblables aux pierres rares! ne valent pas ce regard qui sort de sa chair heureuse: des seins levés comme s’ils étaient pleins d’un lait éternel, la pointe vers le ciel, les jambes lisses qui gardent le sel de la mer première.” Se rappelant leurs pauvres épouses, chauves, morbides et pleines d’horreur, les maris se pressent: elles aussi par curiosité, mélancoliques, veulent voir. Quand tous auront contemplé la noble créature, vestige de quelque époque déjà maudite, les uns indifférents, car ils n’auront pas eu la force de comprendre, mais d’autres navrés et la paupière humide de larmes résignées, se regarderont; tandis que les poètes de ces temps, sentant se rallumer leur yeux éteints, s’achemineront vers leur lampe, le cerveau ivre un instant d’une gloire confuse, hantés du Rythme et dans l’oubli d’exister à une époque qui survit à la beauté. THE FUTURE PHENOMENON—by Mallarmé A pale sky, above the world that is ending through decrepitude, going perhaps to pass away with the clouds: shreds of worn-out purple of the sunsets wash off their colour in a river sleeping on the horizon, submerged with rays and water. The trees are weary and, beneath their foliage, whitened (by the dust of time rather than that of the roads), rises the canvas house of “Showman of things Past.” Many a lamp awaits the gloaming and brightens the faces of a miserable crowd vanquished by the immortal illness and the sin of ages, of men by the sides of their puny accomplices pregnant with the miserable fruit with which the world will perish. In the anxious silence of all the eyes supplicating the sun there, which sinks under the water with the desperation of a cry, this is the plain announcement: “No sign-board now regales you with the spectacle that is inside, for there is no painter now capable of giving even a sad shadow of it. I bring living (and preserved by sovereign science through the years) a Woman of other days. Some kind of folly, naïve and original, an ecstasy of gold, I know not what, by her called her hair, clings with the grace of some material round a face brightened by the blood-red nudity of her lips. In place of vain clothing, she has a body; and her eyes, resembling precious stones! are not worth that look, which comes from her happy flesh: breasts raised as if full of eternal milk, the points towards the sky; the smooth legs, that keep the salt of the first sea.” Remembering their poor spouses, bald, morbid, and full of horrors, the husbands press forward: the women too, from curiosity, gloomily wish to see. When all shall have contemplated the noble creature, vestige of some epoch already damned, some indifferently, for they will not have had strength to understand, but others broken-hearted and with eyelids wet with tears of resignation, will look at each other; while the poets of those times, feeling their dim eyes rekindled, will make their way towards their lamp, their brain for an instant drunk with confused glory, haunted by Rhythm and forgetful that they exist at an epoch which has survived beauty. APPENDIX II.[92] No. 1. The following verses are by Vielé-Griffin, from page 28 of a volume of his Poems:— OISEAU BLEU COULEUR DU TEMPS. 1. Sait-tu l’oubli D’un vain doux rêve, Oiseau moqueur De la forêt? Le jour pâlit, La nuit se lève, Et dans mon cœur L’ombre a pleuré; 2. O chante-moi Ta folle gamme, Car j’ai dormi Ce jour durant; Le lâche emoi Où fut mon âme Sanglote ennui Le jour mourant... 3. Sais-tu le chant De sa parole Et de sa voix, Toi qui redis Dans le couchant Ton air frivole Comme autrefois Sous les midis? 4. O chante alors La mélodie De son amour, Mon fol espoir, Parmi les ors Et l’incendie Du vain doux jour Qui meurt ce soir. FRANCIS VIELÉ-GRIFFIN. BLUE BIRD. 1. Canst thou forget, In dreams so vain, Oh, mocking bird Of forest deep? The day doth set, Night comes again, My heart has heard The shadows weep; 2. Thy tones let flow In maddening scale, For I have slept The livelong day; Emotions low In me now wail, My soul they’ve kept: Light dies away ... 3. That music sweet, Ah, do you know Her voice and speech? Your airs so light You who repeat In sunset’s glow, As you sang, each, At noonday’s height. 4. Of my desire, My hope so bold, Her love—up, sing, Sing ’neath this light, This flaming fire, And all the gold The eve doth bring Ere comes the night. No. 2. And here are some verses by the esteemed young poet Verhaeren, which I also take from page 28 of his Works:— ATTIRANCES. Lointainement, et si étrangement pareils, De grands masques d’argent que la brume recule, Vaguent, au jour tombant, autour des vieux soleils. Les doux lointaines!—et comme, au fond du crépuscule, Ils nous fixent le cœur, immensément le cœur, Avec les yeux _défunts de leur_ visage d’âme. C’est toujours du silence, à moins, dans la pâleur Du soir, un jet de feu soudain, un cri de flamme, Un départ de lumière inattendu vers Dieu. On se laisse charmer et troubler de mystère, Et l’on dirait des morts qui taisent un adieu Trop mystique, pour être écouté par la terre! Sont-ils le souvenir matériel et clair Des éphèbes chrétiens couchés aux catacombes Parmi les lys? Sont-ils leur regard et leur chair? Ou seul, ce qui survit de merveilleux aux tombes De ceux qui sont partis, vers leurs rêves, un soir, Conquérir la folie à l’assaut des nuées? Lointainement, combien nous les sentons vouloir Un peu d’amour pour leurs œuvres destituées, Pour leur errance et leur tristesse aux horizons. Toujours! aux horizons du cœur et des pensées, Alors que les vieux soirs éclatent en blasons Soudains, pour les gloires noires et angoissées. ÉMILE VERHAEREN, _Poèmes_. ATTRACTIONS. Large masks of silver, by mists drawn away, So strangely alike, yet so far apart, Float round the old suns when faileth the day. They transfix our heart, so immensely our heart, Those distances mild, in the twilight deep, Looking out of dead faces with their spirit eyes. All around is now silence, except when there leap In the pallor of evening, with fiery cries, Some fountains of flame that God-ward do fly. Mysterious trouble and charms us enfold. You might think that the dead spoke a silent good-bye, Oh! too mystical far on earth to be told! Are they the memories, material and bright, Of the Christian youths that in catacombs sleep ’Mid the lilies? Are they their flesh or their sight? Or the marvel alone that survives, in the deep, Of those that, one night, returned to their dream Of conquering folly by assaulting the skies? For their destitute works—we feel it seems, For a little love their longing cries From horizons far—for their errings and pain. In horizons ever of heart and thought, While the evenings old in bright blaze wane Suddenly, for black glories anguish fraught. No. 3. And the following is a poem by Moréas, evidently an admirer of Greek beauty. It is from page 28 of a volume of his Poems:— ENONE AU CLAIR VISAGE. Enone, j’avais cru qu’en aimant ta beauté Où l’âme avec le corps trouvent leur unité, J’allais, m’affermissant et le cœur et l’esprit, Monter jusqu’à cela qui jamais ne périt, N’ayant été crée, qui n’est froideur ou feu, Qui n’est beau quelque part et laid en autre lieu; Et me flattais encor’ d’une belle harmonie Que j’eusse composé du meilleur et du pire, Ainsi que le chanteur qui chérit Polimnie, En accordant le grave avec l’aigu, retire Un son bien élevé sur les nerfs de sa lyre. Mais mon courage, hélas! se pâmant comme mort, M’enseigna que le trait qui m’avait fait amant Ne fut pas de cet arc que courbe sans effort La Vénus qui naquit du mâle seulement, Mais que j’avais souffert cette Vénus dernière, Qui a le cœur couard, né d’une faible mère. Et pourtant, ce mauvais garçon, chasseur habile, Qui charge son carquois de sagette subtile, Qui secoue en riant sa torche, pour un jour, Qui ne pose jamais que sur de tendres fleurs, C’est sur un teint charmant qu’il essuie les pleurs, Et c’est encore un Dieu, Enone, cet Amour. Mais, laisse, les oiseaux du printemps sont partis, Et je vois les rayons du soleil amortis. Enone, ma douleur, harmonieux visage, Superbe humilité, doux honnête langage, Hier me remirant dans cet étang glacé Qui au bout du jardin se couvre de feuillage, Sur ma face je vis que les jours ont passé. JEAN MORÉAS. ENONE. Enone, in loving thy beauty, I thought, Where the soul and the body to union are brought, That mounting by steadying my heart and my mind, In that which can’t perish, myself I should find. For it ne’er was created, is not ugly and fair; Is not coldness in one part, while on fire it is there. Yes, I flattered myself that a harmony fine I’d succeed to compose of the worst and the best, Like the bard who adores Polyhymnia divine, And mingling sounds different from the nerves of his lyre, From the grave and the smart draws melodies higher. But, alas! my courage, so faint and nigh spent, The dart that has struck me proves without fail Not to be from that bow which is easily bent By the Venus that’s born alone of the male. No, ’twas that other Venus that caused me to smart, Born of frail mother with cowardly heart. And yet that naughty lad, that little hunter bold, Who laughs and shakes his flowery torch just for a day, Who never rests but upon tender flowers and gay, On sweetest skin who dries the tears his eyes that fill, Yet oh, Enone mine, a God’s that Cupid still. Let it pass; for the birds of the Spring are away, And dying I see the sun’s lingering ray. Enone, my sorrow, oh, harmonious face, Humility grand, words of virtue and grace, I looked yestere’en in the pond frozen fast, Strewn with leaves at the end of the garden’s fair space, And I read in my face that those days are now past. No. 4. And this is also from page 28 of a thick book, full of similar Poems, by M. Montesquiou. BERCEUSE D’OMBRE. Des formes, des formes, des formes Blanche, bleue, et rose, et d’or Descendront du haut des ormes Sur l’enfant qui se rendort. Des formes! Des plumes, des plumes, des plumes Pour composer un doux nid. Midi sonne: les enclumes Cessent; la rumeur finit ... Des plumes! Des roses, des roses, des roses Pour embaumer son sommeil, Vos pétales sont moroses Près du sourire vermeil. O roses! Des ailes, des ailes, des ailes Pour bourdonner à son front. Abeilles et demoiselles, Des rythmes qui berceront. Des ailes! Des branches, des branches, des branches Pour tresser un pavillon, Par où des clartés moins franches Descendront sur l’oisillon. Des branches! Des songes, des songes, des songes Dans ses pensers entr’ ouverts Glissez un peu de mensonges A voir le vie au travers Des songes! Des fées, des fées, des fées, Pour filer leurs écheveaux Des mirages, de bouffées Dans tous ces petits cerveaux. Des fées. Des anges, des anges, des anges Pour emporter dans l’éther Les petits enfants étranges Qui ne veulent pas rester ... Nos anges! COMTE ROBERT DE MONTESQUIOU-FEZENSAC, _Les Hortensias Bleus_. THE SHADOW LULLABY. Oh forms, oh forms, oh forms White, blue, and gold, and red Descending from the elm trees, On sleeping baby’s head. Oh forms! Oh feathers, feathers, feathers To make a cosy nest. Twelve striking: stops the clamour; The anvils are at rest ... Oh feathers! Oh roses, roses, roses To scent his sleep awhile, Pale are your fragrant petals Beside his ruby smile. Oh roses! Oh wings, oh wings, oh wings Of bees and dragon-flies, To hum around his forehead, And lull him with your sighs. Oh wings! Branches, branches, branches A shady bower to twine, Through which, oh daylight, family Descend on birdie mine. Branches! Oh dreams, oh dreams, oh dreams Into his opening mind, Let in a little falsehood With sights of life behind. Dreams! Oh fairies, fairies, fairies, To twine and twist their threads With puffs of phantom visions Into these little heads. Fairies! Angels, angels, angels To the ether far away, Those children strange to carry That here don’t wish to stay ... Our angels! Footnote 92: The translations in Appendices I., II., and IV., are by Louise Maude. The aim of these renderings has been to keep as close to the originals as the obscurity of meaning allowed. The sense (or absence of sense) has therefore been more considered than the form of the verses. APPENDIX III. These are the contents of _The Nibelung’s Ring_:— The first part tells that the nymphs, the daughters of the Rhine, for some reason guard gold in the Rhine, and sing: Weia, Waga, Woge du Welle, Walle zur Wiege, Wagalaweia, Wallala, Weiala, Weia, and so forth. These singing nymphs are pursued by a gnome (a nibelung) who desires to seize them. The gnome cannot catch any of them. Then the nymphs guarding the gold tell the gnome just what they ought to keep secret, namely, that whoever renounces love will be able to steal the gold they are guarding. And the gnome renounces love, and steals the gold. This ends the first scene. In the second scene a god and a goddess lie in a field in sight of a castle which giants have built for them. Presently they wake up and are pleased with the castle, and they relate that in payment for this work they must give the goddess Freia to the giants. The giants come for their pay. But the god Wotan objects to parting with Freia. The giants get angry. The gods hear that the gnome has stolen the gold, promise to confiscate it and to pay the giants with it. But the giants won’t trust them, and seize the goddess Freia in pledge. The third scene takes place under ground. The gnome Alberich, who stole the gold, for some reason beats a gnome, Mime, and takes from him a helmet which has the power both of making people invisible and of turning them into other animals. The gods, Wotan and others, appear and quarrel with one another and with the gnomes, and wish to take the gold, but Alberich won’t give it up, and (like everybody all through the piece) behaves in a way to ensure his own ruin. He puts on the helmet, and becomes first a dragon and then a toad. The gods catch the toad, take the helmet off it, and carry Alberich away with them. Scene IV. The gods bring Alberich to their home, and order him to command his gnomes to bring them all the gold. The gnomes bring it. Alberich gives up the gold, but keeps a magic ring. The gods take the ring. So Alberich curses the ring, and says it is to bring misfortune on anyone who has it. The giants appear; they bring the goddess Freia, and demand her ransom. They stick up staves of Freia’s height, and gold is poured in between these staves: this is to be the ransom. There is not enough gold, so the helmet is thrown in, and they also demand the ring. Wotan refuses to give it up, but the goddess Erda appears and commands him to do so, because it brings misfortune. Wotan gives it up. Freia is released. The giants, having received the ring, fight, and one of them kills the other. This ends the Prelude, and we come to the First Day. The scene shows a house in a tree. Siegmund runs in tired, and lies down. Sieglinda, the mistress of the house (and wife of Hunding), gives him a drugged draught, and they fall in love with each other. Sieglinda’s husband comes home, learns that Siegmund belongs to a hostile race, and wishes to fight him next day; but Sieglinda drugs her husband, and comes to Siegmund. Siegmund discovers that Sieglinda is his sister, and that his father drove a sword into the tree so that no one can get it out. Siegmund pulls the sword out, and commits incest with his sister. Act II. Siegmund is to fight with Hunding. The gods discuss the question to whom they shall award the victory. Wotan, approving of Siegmund’s incest with his sister, wishes to spare him, but, under pressure from his wife, Fricka, he orders the Valkyrie Brünnhilda to kill Siegmund. Siegmund goes to fight; Sieglinda faints. Brünnhilda appears and wishes to slay Siegmund. Siegmund wishes to kill Sieglinda also, but Brünnhilda does not allow it; so he fights with Hunding. Brünnhilda defends Siegmund, but Wotan defends Hunding. Siegmund’s sword breaks, and he is killed. Sieglinda runs away. Act III. The Valkyries (divine Amazons) are on the stage. The Valkyrie Brünnhilda arrives on horseback, bringing Siegmund’s body. She is flying from Wotan, who is chasing her for her disobedience. Wotan catches her, and as a punishment dismisses her from her post as a Valkyrie. He casts a spell on her, so that she has to go to sleep and to continue asleep until a man wakes her. When someone wakes her she will fall in love with him. Wotan kisses her; she falls asleep. He lets off fire, which surrounds her. We now come to the Second Day. The gnome Mime forges a sword in a wood. Siegfried appears. He is a son born from the incest of brother with sister (Siegmund with Sieglinda), and has been brought up in this wood by the gnome. In general the motives of the actions of everybody in this production are quite unintelligible. Siegfried learns his own origin, and that the broken sword was his father’s. He orders Mime to reforge it, and then goes off. Wotan comes in the guise of a wanderer, and relates what will happen: that he who has not learnt to fear will forge the sword, and will defeat everybody. The gnome conjectures that this is Siegfried, and wants to poison him. Siegfried returns, forges his father’s sword, and runs off, shouting, Heiho! heiho! heiho! Ho! ho! Aha! oho! aha! Heiaho! heiaho! heiaho! Ho! ho! Hahei! hoho! hahei! And we get to Act II. Alberich sits guarding a giant, who, in form of a dragon, guards the gold he has received. Wotan appears, and for some unknown reason foretells that Siegfried will come and kill the dragon. Alberich wakes the dragon, and asks him for the ring, promising to defend him from Siegfried. The dragon won’t give up the ring. Exit Alberich. Mime and Siegfried appear. Mime hopes the dragon will teach Siegfried to fear. But Siegfried does not fear. He drives Mime away and kills the dragon, after which he puts his finger, smeared with the dragon’s blood, to his lips. This enables him to know men’s secret thoughts, as well as the language of birds. The birds tell him where the treasure and the ring are, and also that Mime wishes to poison him. Mime returns, and says out loud that he wishes to poison Siegfried. This is meant to signify that Siegfried, having tasted dragon’s blood, understands people’s secret thoughts. Siegfried, having learnt Mime’s intentions, kills him. The birds tell Siegfried where Brünnhilda is, and he goes to find her. Act III. Wotan calls up Erda. Erda prophesies to Wotan, and gives him advice. Siegfried appears, quarrels with Wotan, and they fight. Suddenly Siegfried’s sword breaks Wotan’s spear, which had been more powerful than anything else. Siegfried goes into the fire to Brünnhilda; kisses her; she wakes up, abandons her divinity, and throws herself into Siegfried’s arms. Third Day. Prelude. Three Norns plait a golden rope, and talk about the future. They go away. Siegfried and Brünnhilda appear. Siegfried takes leave of her, gives her the ring, and goes away. Act I. By the Rhine. A king wants to get married, and also to give his sister in marriage. Hagen, the king’s wicked brother, advises him to marry Brünnhilda, and to give his sister to Siegfried. Siegfried appears; they give him a drugged draught, which makes him forget all the past and fall in love with the king’s sister, Gutrune. So he rides off with Gunther, the king, to get Brünnhilda to be the king’s bride. The scene changes. Brünnhilda sits with the ring. A Valkyrie comes to her and tells her that Wotan’s spear is broken, and advises her to give the ring to the Rhine nymphs. Siegfried comes, and by means of the magic helmet turns himself into Gunther, demands the ring from Brünnhilda, seizes it, and drags her off to sleep with him. Act II. By the Rhine. Alberich and Hagen discuss how to get the ring. Siegfried comes, tells how he has obtained a bride for Gunther and spent the night with her, but put a sword between himself and her. Brünnhilda rides up, recognises the ring on Siegfried’s hand, and declares that it was he, and not Gunther, who was with her. Hagen stirs everybody up against Siegfried, and decides to kill him next day when hunting. Act III. Again the nymphs in the Rhine relate what has happened. Siegfried, who has lost his way, appears. The nymphs ask him for the ring, but he won’t give it up. Hunters appear. Siegfried tells the story of his life. Hagen then gives him a draught, which causes his memory to return to him. Siegfried relates how he aroused and obtained Brünnhilda, and everyone is astonished. Hagen stabs him in the back, and the scene is changed. Gutrune meets the corpse of Siegfried. Gunther and Hagen quarrel about the ring, and Hagen kills Gunther. Brünnhilda cries. Hagen wishes to take the ring from Siegfried’s hand, but the hand of the corpse raises itself threateningly. Brünnhilda takes the ring from Siegfried’s hand, and when Siegfried’s corpse is carried to the pyre she gets on to a horse and leaps into the fire. The Rhine rises, and the waves reach the pyre. In the river are three nymphs. Hagen throws himself into the fire to get the ring, but the nymphs seize him and carry him off. One of them holds the ring; and that is the end of the matter. The impression obtainable from my recapitulation is, of course, incomplete. But however incomplete it may be, it is certainly infinitely more favourable than the impression which results from reading the four booklets in which the work is printed. APPENDIX IV. Translations of French poems and prose quoted in Chapter X. BAUDELAIRE’S “FLOWERS OF EVIL.” No. XXIV. I adore thee as much as the vaults of night, O vase full of grief, taciturnity great, And I love thee the more because of thy flight. It seemeth, my night’s beautifier, that you Still heap up those leagues—yes! ironically heap!— That divide from my arms the immensity blue. I advance to attack, I climb to assault, Like a choir of young worms at a corpse in the vault; Thy coldness, oh cruel, implacable beast! Yet heightens thy beauty, on which my eyes feast! BAUDELAIRE’S “FLOWERS OF EVIL.” No. XXXVI. DUELLUM. Two warriors come running, to fight they begin, With gleaming and blood they bespatter the air; These games, and this clatter of arms, is the din Of youth that’s a prey to the surgings of love. The rapiers are broken! and so is our youth, But the dagger’s avenged, dear! and so is the sword, By the nail that is steeled and the hardened tooth. Oh, the fury of hearts aged and ulcered by love! In the ditch, where the ounce and the pard have their lair, Our heroes have rolled in an angry embrace; Their skin blooms on brambles that erewhile were bare. That ravine is a friend-inhabited hell! Then let us roll in, oh woman inhuman, To immortalise hatred that nothing can quell! FROM BAUDELAIRE’S PROSE WORK ENTITLED “LITTLE POEMS.” THE STRANGER. Whom dost thou love best? say, enigmatical man—thy father, thy mother, thy brother, or thy sister? “I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.” Thy friends? “You there use an expression the meaning of which till now remains unknown to me.” Thy country? “I ignore in what latitude it is situated.” Beauty? “I would gladly love her, goddess and immortal.” Gold? “I hate it as you hate God.” Then what do you love, extraordinary stranger? “I love the clouds ... the clouds that pass ... there ... the marvellous clouds!” BAUDELAIRE’S PROSE POEM, THE SOUP AND THE CLOUDS. My beloved little silly was giving me my dinner, and I was contemplating, through the open window of the dining-room, those moving architectures which God makes out of vapours, the marvellous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, amid my contemplations, “All these phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the monstrous little silly with the green eyes.” Suddenly I felt the violent blow of a fist on my back, and I heard a harsh, charming voice, an hysterical voice, as it were hoarse with brandy, the voice of my dear little well-beloved, saying, “Are you going to eat your soup soon, you d—— b—— of a dealer in clouds?” BAUDELAIRE’S PROSE POEM, THE GALLANT MARKSMAN. As the carriage was passing through the forest, he ordered it to be stopped near a shooting-gallery, saying that he wished to shoot off a few bullets to _kill_ Time. To kill this monster, is it not the most ordinary and the most legitimate occupation of everyone? And he gallantly offered his arm to his dear, delicious, and execrable wife—that mysterious woman to whom he owed so much pleasure, so much pain, and perhaps also a large part of his genius. Several bullets struck far from the intended mark—one even penetrated the ceiling; and as the charming creature laughed madly, mocking her husband’s awkwardness, he turned abruptly towards her and said, “Look at that doll there on the right with the haughty mien and her nose in the air; well, dear angel, _I imagine to myself that it is you_!” And he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The doll was neatly decapitated. Then, bowing towards his dear one, his delightful, execrable wife, his inevitable, pitiless muse, and kissing her hand respectfully, he added, “Ah! my dear angel, how I thank you for my skill!” VERLAINE’S “FORGOTTEN AIRS.” No. I. “The wind in the plain Suspends its breath.”—FAVART. ’Tis ecstasy languishing, Amorous fatigue, Of woods all the shudderings Embraced by the breeze, ’Tis the choir of small voices Towards the grey trees. Oh the frail and fresh murmuring! The twitter and buzz, The soft cry resembling That’s expired by the grass ... Oh, the roll of the pebbles ’Neath waters that pass! Oh, this soul that is groaning In sleepy complaint! In us is it moaning? In me and in you? Low anthem exhaling While soft falls the dew. VERLAINE’S “FORGOTTEN AIRS.” No. VIII. In the unending Dulness of this land, Uncertain the snow Is gleaming like sand. No kind of brightness In copper-hued sky, The moon you might see Now live and now die. Grey float the oak trees— Cloudlike they seem— Of neighbouring forests, The mists in between. Wolves hungry and lean, And famishing crow, What happens to you When acid winds blow? In the unending Dulness of this land, Uncertain the snow Is gleaming like sand. SONG BY MAETERLINCK. When he went away, (Then I heard the door) When he went away, On her lips a smile there lay ... Back he came to her, (Then I heard the lamp) Back he came to her, Someone else was there ... It was death I met, (And I heard her soul) It was death I met, For her he’s waiting yet ... Someone came to say, (Child, I am afraid) Someone came to say That he would go away ... With my lamp alight, (Child, I am afraid) With my lamp alight, Approached I in affright ... To one door I came, (Child, I am afraid) To one door I came, A shudder shook the flame ... At the second door, (Child, I am afraid) At the second door Forth words the flame did pour ... To the third I came, (Child, I am afraid) To the third I came, Then died the little flame ... Should he one day return Then what shall we say? Waiting, tell him, one And dying for him lay ... If he asks for you, Say what answer then? Give him my gold ring And answer not a thing ... Should he question me Concerning the last hour? Say I smiled for fear That he should shed a tear ... Should he question more Without knowing me? Like a sister speak; Suffering he may be ... Should he question why Empty is the hall? Show the gaping door, The lamp alight no more ... 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