an anthology of belgian symbolist poets -...

An Anthology ofBelgian Symbolist Poets

Donald Flanell FriedmanEditor

PETER LANG

An Anthologyof Belgian Symbolist Poets

Belgian Francophone Library

Donald Flanell FriedmanGeneral Editor

Vol. 15

PETER LANGNew York Washington, D.C./Baltimore Bern

Frankfurt am Main Berlin Brussels Vienna Oxford

An Anthologyof Belgian Symbolist Poets

E D I T E D A N D T R A N S L A T E D B Y

Donald Flanell Friedman

PETER LANGNew York Washington, D.C./Baltimore Bern

Frankfurt am Main Berlin Brussels Vienna Oxford

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

An anthology of Belgian symbolist poets /edited by Donald Flanell Friedman.

p. cm. — (Belgian francophone library ; v. 15)Includes bibliographical references.

1. Belgian poetry (French)—20th century. 2. Belgian poetry (French)—19th century.3. Symbolism (Literary movement)—Belgium. I. Friedman, Donald Flanell. II. Series.

PQ3843 .A55 2003 841’.80915—dc21 2002011036ISBN 0-8204-5594-6

ISSN 1074-6757

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Friedman, Donald Flanell:An anthology of Belgian symbolist poets /

edited and translated by Donald Flannell Friedman.−New York; Washington, D.C./Baltimore; Bern;

Frankfurt am Main; Berlin; Brussels; Vienna; Oxford: Lang.(Belgian Francophone library; Vol. 15)

ISBN 0-8204-5594-6

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Donald Flanell Friedman: Belgian Symbolism, an Anthology page v

For my mother and father

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Donald Flanell Friedman: Belgian Symbolism, an Anthology page vii

NOTE TO THE RE-EDITION

� It is with pleasure that I again offer this selection of Belgian Symbolistpoetry, first published in the Garland World Literature in Translation se-ries in 1992. I remain struck by the visionary immediacy of the Belgian

verse achieved in a remarkable efflorescence a century ago. The pleasure is height-ened by the fact that the poems will appear in the Belgian Francophone Library.My resounding thanks to the many authors in Europe and the U.S. who havemade this a vibrant series. At the Belgian Ministry of Culture, I would like to ex-press gratitude to Marc Quaghebeur with whom I conceived the series, and appre-ciation to Jean-Luc Outers, who has unfailingly nurtured and supported the seriessince its inception. They have made this a fruitful collaborative venture.

This Anthology of Belgian Symbolist Poets was originally inspired by the work ofAnna Balakian, whom I am proud to claim as mentor. The example of this greatscholar remains luminous. She combined intellectual penetration, absolute open-ness to the essence of poetry, and the ability to live life with intense commitment.I would like to express appreciation to the Spanish poet, Francesc Miguel Franch,who generously shared his expertise and poetic insight during the translationprocess.

I am fortunate to enjoy the friendship of scholars of the Belgian fin de siècle,Jane Block, Adrienne Fontainas, Steven Goddard, and Patrick Laude. I am grate-ful for their profound work and warm rapport. My path has been lit by the crea-tion of Paul Williams and by Elza Willems’ understanding and sustaining friend-ship. With gratitude, I honor the memory of scholar, Luc Fontainas, who, withcharacteristic kindness, introduced me to poets included in this anthology.

I would like to express warm appreciation to Dr. Madeleine Jacobs for her radi-ant wisdom and guidance.

Donald Flanell Friedman: Belgian Symbolism, an Anthology page viii

viii an anthology of belgian symbolist poets

The encouragement of my mother and father, their sensitivity to all manifesta-tions of beauty, made this work possible. Friederike Zeitlhofer is ever an inspiringand joyous presence, a source of hope in my world.

Donald Flanell FriedmanWinthrop UniversityFebruary, 2002

Donald Flanell Friedman: Belgian Symbolism, an Anthology page ix

CONTENTS

Belgian Symbolism: A Poetry of Place and Displacement 1

I . G E O R G E S R O D E N B A C H

Commentary 6

“The indolent mists of autumn . . .” 8“Le brouillard indolent de l’automne . . .” 9

“Deceased are the patrician mansions . . .” 8“Très défuntes sont les maisons . . .” 9

“The ancient church hovers . . .” 12“La vieille église rêve . . .” 13

“My city, beloved sister . . .” 14“O ville, toi ma soeur . . .” 15

“The chamber, sad and weary . . .” 14“La chambre triste et lasse . . .” 15

“Silence: it is the voice which trails . . .” 16“Silence: c’est la voix qui se traîne . . .” 17

“At first, the aquarium seems not to be alive . . .” 16“L’aquarium d’abord ne semble pas vivant . . .” 17

“The long line of streetlamps . . .” 18“Les réverbères en enfilade . . .” 19

“The Night is alone, like a beggar . . .” 20“La Nuit est seule, comme un pauvre . . .” 21

“Sweet is the room . . .” 22“la chambre, un doux port relégué. . .” 23

“During those hours of sad evening . . .” 22“Aux heures de soir morne . . .” 23

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“At evening, they appear . . .” 24“Aux vitres de notre âme . . .” 25

“Water, for the sufferer . . .” 26“L’Eau, pour qui souffre . . .” 27

“O snow, the sweet sound . . .” 26“O neige, toi la douce endormeuse . . .” 27

I I . E M I L E V E R H A E R E N

Commentary 32

The Corpse 34La Morte 35

The Revolt 36La Révolte 37

The Blade 38Le Glaive 39

The Ill 40Les Malades 41

The Rain 44La Pluie 45

Infinitely 48Infiniment 49

Fatal Flower 48Fleur Fatale 49

To Die 50Mourir 51

London 52Londres 53

Madman’s Song 52Chanson de Fou 53

Tenebrae 56Ténèbres 57

Vesperal 56Un Soir 57

The Rock 58Le Roc 59

The Abandoned Port 62Le Port Déchu 63

Contents xi

Donald Flanell Friedman: Belgian Symbolism, an Anthology page xi

I I I . M A U R I C E M A E T E R L I N C K

Commentary 68

Hot House 70Serre Chaude 71

Nocturnal Orison 70Oraison Nocturne 71

Foliage of the Heart 72Feuillage du Coeur 73

Soul 74Ame 75

Prayer 76Oraison 77

Reflections 78Reflets 79

Diving Bell 80Cloche à Plongeur 81

Round of Tedium 82Ronde d’Ennui 83

Touches 84Attouchements 85

Bell-Glasses 88Cloches De Verre 89

Weary Hunts 90Chasses Lasses 91

Gazes 90Regards 91

Amen 94Amen 95

Hospital 94Hôpital 95

Hothouse of Boredom 98Serre d’Ennui 99

Afternoon 98Après-midi 99

Soul of Night 100Ame de Nuit 101

“And if he were ever to return” 100“Et s’il revenait un jour” 101

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“They killed three sweet little girls” 102“Ils ont tué trois petites filles” 103

“You have lit the lamps” 104“Vous avez allumé les lampes” 105

Canticle of the Virgin 104Cantique de la Vierge 105

“I have searched thirty years” 106“J’ai cherché trente ans, mes soeurs” 107

I V. T H E Y O U N G B E L G I A N S

Commentary 110

M A X W A L L E R

It’s Raining 112Il Pleut 113

Love-Hotel 112Amour-Hôtel 113

A L B E R T G I R A U D

Red Mass 118Messe Rouge 119

Waltz of Chopin 118Valse de Chopin 119

Initiation 120Initiation 121

The Missal 120Le Missel 121

V A L È R E G I L L E

The Slumbers of Gold 126Les Sommeils D’Or 127

Legend 126Légende 127

Contents xiii

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ED: subsequent email said to use Severin, not Séverin.

I W A N G I L K I N

Litanies and Prayer 132Litanies et Prière 133

Prayer 136Prière 137

Psychology 138Psychologie 139

GEORGES KHNOPFF

A Evening—Life: Serenity 142Soir—La Vie: Sérénité 143

J E A N D E LV I L L E

Magica 146Magica 147

The Holy Book 150Le Livre Sacré 151

Lunar Park 150Parc Lunaire 151

The Horror of the Rain 152L’Horreur de la Pluie 153

The Marmorean Slumbers 152Les Sommeils de Marbre 153

G E O R G E S M A R L O W

At Evening I 158Du Soir 159

F E R N A N D S E V E R I N

She, Who Will Come 162A Celle qui Viendra 163

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G R E G O I R E L E R O Y

Wretchedness 166Misère 167

The Fiancée of Shadows 166La Fiancée de l’Ombre 167

Dimmed Christmases 168Les Noëls Éteints 169

A L B E R T M O C K E L

Carmen 172Carmen 173

To the Destroyer 172A La Faucheuse 173

Intoxication 174Enivrement 175

The Prey 176La Proie 177

M A R C E L W Y S E U R

The Spinners 180Les Fileuses 181

The Chapel in the Dunes 180La Chapelle dans Les Dunes 181

A N D R É F O N T A I N A S

Jealousy 186Jalousie 187

The Virgins Look at Themselves in the Mirrors 186Les Vierges se Mirent dans les Miroirs 187

The Estuaries of Shadows VI 188Les Estuaires de l’Ombre VI 189

The Estuaries of Shadows VIII 190Les Estuaires de l’Ombre VIII 191

Your Eyes 190Tes Yeux 191

Contents xv

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V. M A X E L S K A M P

Commentary 194

In Memorium 196In Memoriam 197

Song of the Rue Saint-Paul no. 7 200La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul no. 7 201

Blue Night 202Nuit Bleue 203

Silks 206Soieries 207

The Islands 208Les Iles 209

Salome 210Salome 211

V I . C H A R L E S V A N L E R B E R G H E

Commentary 216

“Gaze into our depths . . .” 218“Regarde au fond de nous . . .” 219

“Place your pale diadem . . .” 218“Mets sur mon front . . .” 219

“My resonant angels came . . .” 220“D’entre les roses de l’aurore . . .” 221

“Do you still remember . . .” 222“Le sais-tu encore, O ma Licorne?” 223

“But one night Venus came . . .” 222“Or, Venus, une nuit . . .” 223

“Close now, magic ring . . .” 226“Ferme-toi, cercle enchanté. . .” 227

“The wave is shivering . . .” 230“L’onde tremble . . .” 231

“The radiant fruit of gold shimmers . . .” 230“Il luit dans l’ombre, le beau fruit . . .” 231

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“Be absolved by my decree . . .” 232“Sois absous par ma bouche . . .” 233

“Dove! Dove! Enchanted Dove . . .” 234“Colombe! Colombe! Colombe enchantée . . .” 235

“But how to understand and how to name you . . .” 234“Mais comment vous comprendre . . .” 235

“I crossed the ardent forest . . .” 236“J’ai traversé l’ardent buisson . . .” 237

“O God, who could be there . . .” 240“O Dieu qui donc est là. . .” 241

“Through the happiness of twilight . . .” 240“Ce soir, à travers le bonheur . . .” 241

“Along the pale waters . . .” 242“Au long des eaux pâles . . .” 243

“I say, teach me who you are, Azrael . . .” 244“Apprends-moi, dis-je, qui tu es . . .” 245

“O death, dust of stars . . .” 244“O mort, poussière d’étoiles . . .” 245

Donald Flanell Friedman: Belgian Symbolism, an Anthology page xvii

ILLUSTRATIONS

cover: Fernand Khnopff. A Gesture of Offering, 1900, drypoint, Spenser Museum of Art, Lawrence, Kansas.

Fernand Khnopff. An Abandoned City. 1904. Royal Museum, Brussels. (photograph courtesy Speltdoorn, Brussels). 10

Fernand Khnopff. At Bruges. A Church Portal. 1904. Royal Museum, Brussels. (photograph courtesy Speltdoorn, Brussels). 11

Fernand Khnopff. Secret-Reflection. 1902. The Groeninge Museum, Bruges. (photograph courtesy Speltdoorn, Brussels). 79

Jean Delville. Expectation, 1903. pencil and charcoal on paper, The Museum of Modern Art, New York, photo The Museum of Modern Art. 149

Donald Flanell Friedman: Belgian Symbolism, an Anthology page 1

BELGIAN SYMBOLISM: A POETRY OF

PLACE AND DISPLACEMENT

� Belgian Symbolism participates in the essence of the international move-ment, which originated in France and swept Europe at the turn of thecentury. In its broadest definition, Symbolism is a style and a mystique

unconcerned with mimetic representation of objects and events in their historicalreality, but with evocation and distillation of mood. The thrust of the movementwas to suggest, in indirect discourse, the secrets of interiority, thereby creating anenduring zone of aesthetic experience distanced from the mundane concerns andmaterialism of society. The elusive and evanescent, the disappearance of the lyricself, masked by the personae of myth and legend, such is the general aura of Sym-bolism. Within this aura, Belgian Symbolism has its own particular nuance andcharacteristics which encompass the highly varied and individualistic creation ofmany young writers—beginning in the 1880’s, with prolongations lasting throughthe 1920’s—who found artistic renewal in giving expression to the mysterious anduncharted depths of interiority.

In the January, 1894 Le Reveil, Victor Remouchamps wrote of the “InteriorWorld”: “We have everything within us. The mind is an ocean of sensations, a uni-verse of visions; but it is necessary to know how to explore it . . .”1 Paradoxically,the key to this exploration was vouchsafed the Belgian Symbolists by means ofhighly concrete imagery, culled from the exterior world, which became a transpar-ent screen and mirror allowing access to inner states. Emile Verhaeren summarizedthe essential modality and distinction of Belgian Symbolism in an 1887 article inL’Art Moderne: “One begins with things seen, heard, felt, tasted in order to giverise to evocation. . . .”2 Concrete imagery may dilate, expand in meaning to en-compass abstract states of mind. In his well-known response to an inquiry by JulesHuret, Mallarmé had distinguished two types of symbolic usage, either to gradu-ally evoke an object in order to demonstrate a mood or, conversely, to start with anobject and, through deciphering, disengage a mood from it.3 The second usage


2 an anthology of belgian symbolist poets

typifies Belgian poetry of the turn of the century, in which exterior landscapeserves as the designation of the interior; the lineaments of the known may suggestthe artist’s hidden response to it; subjective deformation of a familiar environmentmay transform it into an inner and private realm of poetic experience.

Belgian Symbolism is a poetry of strangeness and hallucination, precisely be-cause of being rooted, much more so than the Symbolism of France, in a sense ofplace. Whereas the French Symbolist coterie evoked endless artificial dreamscapes,somnolent, enchanted gardens inhabited by swans, princesses, and such (these arealso present in Belgian Symbolism, but to a lesser extent), the strongest of the Bel-gian poets sought the dreamlike aspects of their own northern environment inorder to demonstrate the subtle, ambiguous influence of atmosphere upon thosewho absorb it. Spatial paradigms for the inner world are recurrent throughoutBelgian Symbolism and often take the form of actual cities, no longer sites of com-munity, but the poet’s private realm of introspection. Bruges and Ghent, canal cit-ies of mirroring water, are Georges Rodenbach’s spaces of poetry and delving. Ablack and labyrinthine London serves Emile Verhaeren as a concretization of spir-itual dejection and madness, as do wintry planes and villages of Flanders. The portof Antwerp is the pivot of Max Elskamp’s poetry. The polyglot life of the port isconducive to dreams of distant islands outside of time. The port of Antwerp isElskamp’s entranceway to many other spaces, often to spaces within spaces, as in aplay of Chinese boxes. In number 7 of the Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul, the poet’snative street leads him to a harbor brothel and, within the brothel, to two engrav-ings, Vesuvius and the suspended Brooklyn Bridge, emblems of the fire and wait-ing which are the modalities of the place. In “Salome,” the space of a theater logeand, beyond, the performance of ballerinas, merges with a fantasy of Herod’s for-tress. A length of silk in “Soieries” gainsays entrance into a Persian garden, a worldof miniature illumination, evoked in tiny, mincing lines. Spatial paradigms areused to suggest moods of disjunction, isolation, and suffocating disharmony inthe poetry of Maurice Maeterlinck. Hothouses, bell-glasses, diving bells, spaces ofprotection and imprisonment, are models of interiority. Brief notations of aspectsof asylums, hospital wards, canal cities enter into uncanny conjunctions inMaeterlinck’s world of confusion, a private theater in which nothing is in its place,“rien n’y est à sa place.” Charles Van Lerberghe, who wrote La Chanson d’Eve froma pastoral retreat in the Ardennes, evokes a series of Edens, distinct spaces, whichreflect the moods of the poet-figure, Eve, who enters a state of symbiosis with theworld she is the first to perceive, transforming it in her image. This marked pri-macy of place and the centrality of spatial paradigms for the inner world in BelgianSymbolism may be attributed to feelings of nascent national pride. In 1880, Bel-gium was a fifty-year-old nation state and, by 1885, Symbolism was the first wide-spread, multi-national literary movement in which Belgians played an active role.Though sharing a common language with France and a common impetus to denythe contingencies of the mundane world in their art, the Belgian writers could mit-igate the force of French cultural imperialism and establish a Belgian presence inthe literary world, distinct from their neighbor’s, through cultivation of image

Belgian Symbolism: A Poetry of Place and Displacement 3


repertoires of places, objects, and Flemish or Walloon experiences, by enteringinto accord with their own geography and rendering it oneiric.

As a style, Symbolism has largely become associated with hermeticism, abstrac-tion, purposeful obfuscation which denies entrance into the poem to all but the in-itiated. Yet, this is not the case with Belgian Symbolism. With its emphasis of con-crete imagery and extraction of mood from the visible world, the language ofBelgian Symbolism is lucid. Simple language allows the reader to enter the sphereof the suggestive and equivocal. Rodenbach’s poems are often structured around acentral conceit, reinforced by many subsidiary metaphors. The accumulation ofsensory impressions, comparisons, and uncanny personifications, rather than diffi-cult syntactical distortions, contribute to an atmosphere of uncertainty. InMaeterlinck’s verse, individual lines are usually simple and direct, often pronounce-ments of vision; it is the untoward juxtapositions of objects and uncertain linksbetween the lines which suffuse Maeterlinck’s poetry with ambiguity. Verhaerenand Elskamp practice extreme syntactical distortion in their verse, but their innova-tions in grammar and structure are made in the direction of simplification.Verhaeren’s truncated, tortured lines, obsessive repetitions, and unfamiliar use ofadverbs perfectly convey halting thought and inner torment. Such calculations asellipses, absent articles, and extremely short lines of 5–7 syllables endow Elskamp’sverse with a deceptively naive quality and emphasize individual moments of vision,which together form a panorama of mood. In La Chanson d’Eve, Lerberghe orches-trates a fluid, malleable language of variable meter and often muted or absent endrhymes intended to convey the unspoiled vision of the first being. There is a con-cordance between the long and respected tradition of Flemish painting, at oncemystical in orientation and based upon close observation of the world, and the vis-ual and visionary qualities of language preponderate in Belgian Symbolism. Thefifteenth century St. Ursula reliquary of Hans Memling, dream-like, yet precise indetail, serves as a metaphor in Rodenbach’s Bruges-la-Morte. Verhaeren was alsointerested in the visual arts, an astute critic who wrote both about the Flemish pastand contemporary Idealist painters. Verhaeren’s first collection of poetry, Les Fla-mandes, was inspired by sixteenth century genre painting. Gregoire Le Roy andJean Delville were symbolist poets and painters, in quest in both media of the enig-matic which lurks beneath appearance. As a visionary poetry, Belgian Symbolisminfluenced many artists of the turn of the century, chief among them FernandKhnopff and William Degouve de Nunques, who derived much of their inspira-tion from contemporary literature. They are not, however, simply illustrators, butsought in their work to portray objects in a manner which suggests the mysteryand ambiguity, rather than the definitude of the world. Uncommonly compressedor expanded formats, idiosyncratic use of color, emphasis of stasis and suspendedanimation are among the techniques used by Belgian painters of the turn of thecentury to depict images congruent with the modality of symbolist poetry.

In this literature of northern voice, at once more oriented toward the proximateworld than French Symbolism, yet also surrounded with a frisson of unreality,there is an idiosyncratic repertoire of figures. The figures of Greek myth are



largely absent from Belgian poetry, although the presence of Narcissus is implied,but unnamed in Rodenbach’s city of reflection. Instead, Rodenbach’s world ishaunted by Ophelia, suggestive of drowning entrance into an amniotic state ofundifferentiated dream. Ophelia is also present in Verhaeren’s work, but as a figureof madness, the “corpse of reason,” which trails across the Thames toward the en-gulfing abyss. Madmen are recurrent in Verhaeren’s Les Campagnes Hallucinées, an-alogues of the poet, engaged in subjective deformation of the world which theyperceive. Convalescents and invalids are present in the poetry of Rodenbach, Ve-rhaeren and Maeterlinck. In Rodenbach’s verse, the invalid is a being of silenceand introspection, cloistered from the tumult of the world. In Verhaeren’s poetry,there are the “skeptical ill,” tormented by disbelief. Maeterlinck presents the fever-ish invalid, weak, helpless, and lost in hallucination. The nun, engaged in lace-making or the singing of canticles, is a prevalent figure in Rodenbach’s poetry,suggesting the pure and sacrosanct nature of artistic creation. Conversely, the nunin Maeterlinck’s world is associated with hospitals, sickbeds, and premonitions ofdeath. In general, Catholicism as a source of decor and imagery is more markedlypresent in Belgian than French Symbolism. Albert Giraud’s Pierrot becomes apriest and offers his heart as the eucharist. Iwan Gilkin adapts the litany and rosaryforms to convey decadent erotic experiences. Litanies and orisons, hypnotic intheir repetitions, are also forms favored by Maeterlinck in the Serres Chaudes. MaxElskamp’s “In Memoriam,” from Sous les Tentes de l’Exode, is similarly a litany ofdejection. Decaying, dank churches and all they contain become sources of im-agery in the verse of Rodenbach and Verhaeren, who use fallen religious edifices asmetaphors for spiritual malaise and the general ruination of a world in entropy.Except in the Chanson d’Eve, the pagan, liberated climate of Mallarmé’s artist-faunseems excluded from the imaginary universe of Belgian Symbolism, where eventhe gleaming, joyous isles of Lerberghe’s Eden alternate with crepuscular spaces ofdeath and disincarnation.

From the distance of a century, a great part of the fascination of Symbolist lit-erature is its morbidity and thanatopsis, its emphasis of the nebulous rather thanthe fulsome and solidly permanent, silence rather than speech, and states of immo-bility and suspense rather than motion. Within the general matrix of this poetry ofdetachment from the mundane, the Belgian Symbolists have created their ownworlds suffused with mystery. With their hallucinated fusions of the exterior andthe interior, literary fulcrums between the seen and unseen, the Belgians of theturn of the century evoked lasting zones and magnets of the poetic imagination,realms of Hypnos, the arbiter of dream.

Notes

1. Victor Remouchamps. “Le Monde Intérieur” in Le Reveil. (Janvier, 1894), p.25.2. Emile Verhaeren. “Le Symbolisme” in L’Art Moderne. (Avril, 1887), p.p. 115–118.3. Stéphane Mallarmé. “Résponses à des Enquêtes.” Oeuvres Complètes. (Paris: Galli-

mard, 1945), p. 869.


1 Georges Rodenbach

Selections from:

The Reign of SilenceLe Règne du Silence (1891)

The Enclosed LivesLes Vies Encloses (1896)

The Mirror of the Native SkyLe Miroir du ciel natal (1898)


Georges Rodenbach (1855–1898)

Commentary

� A pivotal figure in Belgian letters, Georges Rodenbach was among thefirst to adapt French Symbolist poetics of inwardness and indeterminacyto a theme firmly rooted in experience of his native Flanders. Born in

Tournai and raised in Ghent, Rodenbach explored in his writing “villes mortes,”“dead cities,” medieval Flemish canal cities in lingering decline. Ghent and espe-cially Bruges were Rodenbach’s sacred places, the mythicized cities of his soul andimagination. Rodenbach filtered the actual geographical cities through his subjec-tive mood, transforming them into a literary world of solitude. Rodenbach’spoetry is claustral and hushed; the Flemish city which is his obsessive theme is aprivate, interior realm, a wavering Other World of symbolic lifelessness.

Rodenbach’s dead city is nebulous, a place where “all is a shade of grey, cloakedin the color of fog.” The city is drained of life-force by means of imagery of “es-tompe,” the blurring and fading of the visible, and “attente,” suspended anima-tion. Severed from the commercial activity of the medieval past and without a fu-ture, the literary Bruges is a lingering ghost, a city of memory and dream. Thenuanced moods concretized by Rodenbach’s canal city are of two types, expressiveof conflicting attitudes toward solitude. In its inertia, the city may suggest a land-scape of transfixed pain, in which the fearful loneliness of the city’s observer is mir-rored in the tomb-like abandonment of the surroundings. Conversely, the somno-lent city may suggest a paradisal condition of Schopenhaurian will-lessness, reposeand release from striving, a floating disassociation from the concerns of living.

By turns evocative of the void or of meditative stillness, Rodenbach’s Bruges isa shifting constellation of symbolic constructions: the monastic city of silence; thecity of distortion, in which inanimate objects are endowed with uncanny sen-tience; the city of decay and spiritual malaise. Encompassingly, Bruges is the site ofOrphic descent into the hidden recesses of interiority, signaled by the omnipres-ence of watery depths, the seductively beckoning world of the canal. Still water,retaining reflected images of the past, is Rodenbach’s paradigm for the uncon-scious and memory. The motionless water of Bruges is also lethal, attenuating thedefinitude of the world it reflects and rendering it posthumous. For Rodenbach,the mirage of the canal city was the quintessential space of poetry, zone of the sug-gestive which lures us to realization before dissolving into the mystery which is itsessential nature.

Although he died at the age of forty-three, Georges Rodenbach has a promi-nent place in the history of international Symbolism. His collections of poetry, Le

Georges Rodenbach 7


Règne du Silence (1891), Les Vies encloses (1896), Le Miroir du ciel natal (1898), as wellas his widely read novel, Bruges-la-Morte (1892), established the dead city as aprominent and recurrent literary motif. Rodenbach’s Bruges also inspired manyvisual artists, foremost among them the Belgian, Fernand Khnopff (1858–1921).Khnopff ’s imaginative reconstructions of Bruges emphasize the reflected space ofthe canal, moods of ineffable quietude, but also the fearful paralysis of suspendedanimation. Depicted with pastel and pencil in faded, twilit hues, Khnopff ’sBruges, like Rodenbach’s, is evanescent and diaphanous, a space of tenuous sug-gestion and hovering mirage.

The Poetry of Georges Rodenbach:

Oeuvres, 2 vols. (Genève: Slatkine Reprints, 1978).Oeuvres, 2 vols. (Paris: Mercure de France, 1923).See also the following reedition of Rodenbach’s experiment in sustained symbol-

ist prose: Christian Berg, ed. Bruges-la-Morte (Bruxelles: Labor, 1986).



“The indolent mist of autumn . . .”from “The Miror of the Native Sky

The indolent mist of autumn at last dispersed . . .It hovers between the towers, like the incense full of dreams,Which will linger in the naves after the most solemn Mass;And it sleeps like cloth spread on the dejected, grey ramparts.

It comes unfolded, then folds back on itself, like a wing,In imperceptible motion, yet incessant, in the fog;All is shaded to a blur and turns slightly divine,As beneath the pallid brushing, all is vague and lost in dreams.

All is a shade of grey, cloaked in the color of fog:The sky with its ancient pinions, the water and the poplars,Old friends, reconciled, so easily, with the haze of the past autumn,Like all things which will soon be nothing but the faintest memory.

The victorious mist, against the pale depth of air,Has diluted even the accustomed towers,Whose grey thoughts are now gone forever,Like some vague dream, or a geometry of vapor.

“Deceased are the patrician mansions . . .”from The Reign of Silence

Deceased are the patrician mansions,And eternally enfolded in silence,Lost in the frozen quarters of ancient cities,Where the pinions, caught in a motionless night,Mourn their lost treasures in diaphanous evenings,Which descend upon them from the fading sunlight;Thus, to adorn the tears of these ancient dwellings,Which are like the dismal tombs of vanished things,At the quarter hour, the carillon bell languidly strews,Its heavy flowers of iron upon the void of the streets.

Georges Rodenbach 9


“Le brouillard indolet de l’automne . . .”from Le Miroir du Ciel Natal

Le brouillard indolent de l’automne est épars . . .Il flotte entre les tours comme l’encens qui rêveEt s’attarde après la grand’messe dans les nefs;Et il dort comme du linge sur les remparts.

Il se déplie et se replie. Et c’est une aileAux mouvements imperceptibles et sans fin;Tout s’estompe; tout prend un air un peu divin;Et, sous ces frôlements pâles, tout se nivelle.

Tout est gris, tout revêt la couleur de la brume:Le ciel, les vieux pignons, les eaux, les peupliers,Que la brume aisément a réconciliésComme tout ce qui est déjà presque posthume.

Brouillard vainqueur qui, sur le fond pâle de l’air,A même délayé les tours accoutuméesDont l’élancement gris s’efface et n’a plus l’airQu’un songe de géométrie et de fumées.

“Très défuntes sont les maisons . . .”from Le Régne du Silence

Très défuntes sont les maisons patriciennesEt très dorénavant closes dans du silenceParmi des quartiers froids, en des villes anciennes,Où les pignons, pris d’une inerte somnolence,Ne voient plus rien de grand, dans le soir diaphane,Qui descende sur eux du soleil qui se fane;Et, pour fleurir le deuil de ces vieilles demeuresQui sont les tombeaux noirs des choses disparues,Seul le carillon lent sème tous les quarts d’heuresSes lourdes fleurs de fer dans le vide des rues!


Fernand Khnopff. An Abandoned City. 1904.


Fernand Khnopff. At Bruges. A church portal.



“The ancient church hovers . . .”from The Mirror of the Native Sky

The ancient church hovers in a dream of vast silence,Surrounded by a dead city and all of its sadness;One senses its failing presence, like that of an invalid,And all is made somber by the shadow of the tower.

A twilight of half-mourning pervades all of the naves;Outside, the piercing, repeated lament of swallows is heard.Only those blue windows retain their former pride,As Mary grows pale in her old lacework.

How all is aged and all grown poor. The high pillarsSeem tree-trunks in a dim forest, bereft of their branches.A distant hint, the vague odor of a wound is sensed;Could a crucifix, somewhere, have begun to drip its blood?

Ah! to inhale that sickly smell of ancient church,Insipid, yet sensual and inducing reeling faintness:Fragrant lilies, Christmas mangers with faded straw,Hesitant incense, that dies in the grey shadows;

Golden wine evaporated from the flagon; waxenCandles, whose torment atones our sins;All mingled with many other scents: stale altar-clothsAnd wedding veils, garlanded with orange-flowers.

And the ever present and enduring human smellOf the throng met here, of whom God alone knows the count,Copious tears of repentance and sweats of shame,The slow odor of the centuries, trailing forever . . .

Odor of death, as well, for everything is dying!This church is far too old and the city far too quiet;There is nothing but tombstones in the naves and the choirs,And who can tell how many coffins have passed these portals!

Yes, everything is dead and dies ceaselessly here:Incense in the nothingness, today in the long ago;The faces in the ancient portraits perish as well;And all who enter must dream of those bones, displayed in glass . . .

Georges Rodenbach 13


“La vieille église rêve . . .”from Le Miroir du Ciel Natal

La vieille église rêve en un vaste silence;La ville morte, avec sa tristesse, est autour;On en sent, comme d’un malade, la présence,Et tout est assombri par l’ombre de la tour.

Il règne dans les nefs un jour de demi-deuil;On entend, au dehors, pleurer les hirondelles;Seuls les vitraux d’azur gardent un peu d’orgueil;Et la Vierge pâlit dans ses vieilles dentelles.

Tout est âgé, tout s’appauvrit; les hauts piliersSemblent les troncs, veufs de rameaux, d’une futaie;On sent une lointaine et vague odeur de plaie;Est-ce qu’un crucifix se mettrait à saigner?

Ah! cette maladive odeur de vieille église,Fade, mais sensuelle, et qui fait qu’on défaille:Lys, crèches de Noël dont se fane la paille,Encens irrésolu qui meurt dans l’ombre grise;

Vin d’or évaporé des burettes, bougiesDont la souffrance aura racheté nos péchés;Et tant d’odeurs encor: les nappes défraîchiesEt les voiles de noce aux bouquets d’orangers.

Et vous aussi, votre immortelle odeur humaine,Foule venue ici dont Dieu seul sait le compte:Larmes du repentir et sueur de la honte,Odeur des siècles—lourde, et qui toujours se traîne . . .

Odeur de mort aussi, car tout ici se meurt!Cette église est trop vieille et la ville est trop morte;Ce ne sont que tombeaux dans les nefs et le choeur,Et combien de cercueils en ont franchi les portes!

Oui! tout est mort! Oui! tout se meurt sans cesse ici:L’encens dans le néant, aujourd’hui dans naguères;Les visages des vieux tableaux meurent aussi;Et chacun pense aux ossements des reliquaires . . .



“My city, beloved sister . . .”from The Reign of Silence

My city, beloved sister, whom I resemble,City of decline, the prey of doleful bells,We both no longer know the venturesome vessels,Swelling, like breasts, their sails in the sun,Like breasts, swelling with passion for the sea.We are both the grieving city, which sleeps fitfullyAnd dreams of the ships,Once anchored in its bitter harbor,Where in days of old,The proud ships mirrored their shining sides of gold;Gone now, the sounds and reflections . . . The reeds,With their sword-blades, seem to hold the water prisoner,Those vacant waters, those widowed waters, where only the windStill circulates, whisperingly, to wrap them in a shroud . . .Both of us, we are the sadness of a harbor:You, my sorrowful sister, city, who has nothingBut silence and regret for those former masts;And I, for whom life is nothing but a cold canal.

“The chamber, sad and weary . . .”from The Enclosed Lives

The chamber, sad and weary, has at last grown resigned,And abandons itself to the evening, which slyly steals in:The chamber seems larger and also seems more nude;The shadows have woven the threads of their webIn the corners of the ceiling, the first to grow dark.It fades all the fabrics, deepening their color;In the mirror, turned pale, the reflections come undone,Like an Ophelia in tears as she sinks;And the pleats of the draperies resemble old pathways,The deepest to be found, along old roads and lands.

The evening grows old, frightened of the lights,And crowds around the candles and dim lamps, most hated,Which already plan to make the Shadow bleed.Everything withers in the growing darkness;A bouquet was smiling there, but now drowns,



“O ville, toi ma soeur . . .”from Le Règne du Silence

O ville, toi ma soeur à qui je suis pareil,Ville déchue, en proie aux cloches, tous les deuxNous ne connaissons plus les vaisseaux hasardeuxTendant comme des seins leurs voiles au soleil,Comme des seins gonflés par l’amour de la mer.Nous sommes tous les deux la ville en deuil qui dortEt n’a plus de vaisseaux parmi son port amer,Les vaisseaux qui jadis y miraient leurs flancs d’or;Plus de bruits, de reflets . . . Les glaives des roseauxOnt un air de tenir prisonnières les eaux,Les eaux vides, les eaux veuves, où le vent seulCircule comme pour les étendre en linceul . . .Nous sommes tous les deux la tristesse d’un port:Toi, ville! toi ma soeur douloureuse qui n’asQue du silence et le regret des anciens mâts;Moi, dont la vie aussi n’est qu’un grand canal mort!

“La chambre triste et lasse . . .”from Les Vies Encloses

La chambre triste et lasse est enfin résignéeEt s’abandonne au soir qui, sournois, s’insinue:La chambre a l’air plus grande, a l’air aussi plus nue;L’ombre a tissé ses fils de toile d’araignéeDans les angles, d’abord plus obscurs, du plafond.Elle fane les étoffes, elle les fonce;

Dans le miroir blêmi, les reflets se défontComme d’une Ophélie en larmes qui s’enfonce;Et les plis des rideaux ressemblent aux ornièresTrès profondes des vieux chemins d’un vieux pays.Le soir s’amasse, ayant la crainte des lumières,Autour du lustre et des lampes, surtout haïs,Qui méditent déjà de faire saigner l’Ombre.Tout s’élague dans les ténèbres grandissantes;Un bouquet riait là, mais il s’efface et sombre



Disappeared, and the flowers seem absent in the darkness.The nude bronzes have sad gestures;The thousand portraits of dead grandmothersGrow dark, have faces grown much older,And mourning crepe has covered their blue finery.The chamber is entirely prey to the evening;And it seems that all at once the chamber has grown old.

“Silence: it is the voice that trails . . .”from The Reign of Silence

Silence: it is the voice that trails, wearily,Of the lady of my Silence, with very gentle step,Shedding the white lilies of her complexion in the mirror;Barely convalescent, she watches everything in the distance,The trees, a passer-by, the bridges, a stream,Where wander the great clouds of daylight,But who, still too feeble, is suddenly struckWith the tedium of living and a feeling of loathing,And more subtle, being ill and half-exhausted,She says: “The noise hurts me; have the windows closed . . .”

“At first, the aquarium seems not to be alive . . .”from The Enclosed Lives

At first, the aquarium seems not to be alive,Uninhabited as a mirror in a convent,A twilight, where mists are constantly distilled,Its sleep is so pale that it seems long deceased, And the dark reflections, which come and go,Are only wandering shadows on a deathbed,Or the furtive play of a nightlight on the ceiling.

Now and again, however, something strays in the water,Circulates, unfolds itself, or moves obliquely;The water contracts in a luminous shivering, which breaksInto dying spasms of light, found in a diamond;A dark fish undulates; grass, dressed in mourning, stirs;



Et, dans l’obscurité, les fleurs sont comme absentes;Les bronzes nus ont des gestes découragés;Les vieux portraits d’aïeuls, ceux des aïeules feues,S’assombrissent, ont des visages plus âgés,Et du crêpe a couvert leurs fanfreluches bleues.La chambre est tout entière en proie au soir; et c’estComme si tout à coup la chambre veillissait.

“Silence: c’est la voix qui se traîne . . .”from Le Régne du Silence

Silence: c’est la voix qui se traîne, un peu lasse,De la dame de mon Silence, à très doux pasEffeuillant les lis blancs de son teint dans la glace;Convalescent à peine, et qui voit tout là-basLes arbres, les passants, des ponts, une rivière,Où cheminent de grands nuages de lumière,Mais qui, trop faible encore, est prise tout à coupD’un ennui de la vie et comme d’un dégoûtEt,—plus subtile, étant malade,—mi-brisée,Dit: «Le bruit me fait mal; qu’on ferme la croisée . . .»

“L’aquarium d’abord ne semble pas vivant . . .”from Les Vies Encloses

L’aquarium d’abord ne semble pas vivant,Inhabité comme un miroir dans un couvent;Crépuscule où toujours se reforme une brume;Il dort si pâlement qu’on le croirait posthumeEt que les reflets noirs qui viennent et s’en vontNe sont qu’ombres sans but sur un lit mortuaireEt jeux furtifs de veilleuse sur le plafond.

Pourtant dans l’eau, de temps en temps, quelque chose erre,Circule, se déplie, ou bouge obliquement;Des frissons lumineux crispent cette eau qui mue,—Tels les spasmes de lumière du diamant!—Un poisson sombre ondule, une herbe en deuil remue;



The soft sand, on the bottom, rises and collapses,As if the Hour in a sandglass were shaken in confusion;And sometimes, flattened against the chill crystal,A flaccid monstrosity approaches its distorted image;Meanwhile, the water suffers, though appearing to sleep,And feels passing through its melancholy lethargy,The thousand shadows, with which it trembles endlessly,And which opens, in its surface, an enlarged wound.

But this is the very picture of human sleep,Where, in the water of the mind, believed drained and bare,Submarine dreams are ceaselessly underway,An entire occult life, which is never ending.

“The long line of streetlamps . . .”from The Mirror of the Native Sky

The long line of streetlampsHave lit their pensive lights,Daily, as expected,Forming a play of silent shadows,That come and go.

Does the City sickenAt evening?You would think that it was growing darker;Then wind seems to be lamentingSomeone who will never again be cured;A little bell ringsThe last angelus;The air is resonant, because of the silence;The poplars, holding their leaves still,Are afraid of making noise;And the passers-by muffle their steps in a mist,As if in a chamber, at the bedside . . .

The water whispers more softly beneath the archOf the ancient bridges;It seems to be praying with its sighs,But for what?



Le sable mou du fond s’éboule comme siC’était le sablier bouleversé de l’Heure;Et quelquefois aussi, sur le cristal transi,Un monstre flasque, en trouble imagerie, affleure,Cependant que l’eau souffre, en paraissant dormir,Et sent passer, dans sa morose léthargie,Mille ombres dont elle ne cesse de frémirQui font de sa surface une plaie élargie!

Or n’est-ce pas l’image du sommeil humainOù, dans l’eau du cerveau qu’on croit vidée et nue,Des rêves sous-marins sont sans cesse en chemin,Ah! cette vie occulte, et qui se continue!

“Les réverbères en enfilade . . .”from Le Miroir du Ciel Natal

Les réverbères en enfiladeOnt allumé leurs pensives veilleusesQuotidiennes,Formant un jeu d’ombres silencieusesQui vont et viennent . . .

La Ville est-elle plus maladeLe soir?On dirait qu’il fait plus noir;Le vent a l’air de plaindreQuelqu’un qui ne guérira plus;Une petite cloche tinteLe dernier angélus;L’air est sonore à cause du silence;Les peupliers, dont la cime s’élance,Ont peur de faire trop de bruit;Et les passants embrument leur marcheComme dans une chambre, autour d’un lit . . .

L’eau chuchote plus bas sous l’unique archeDes vieux ponts;On dirait qu’elle prie avec des soupirs;Mais à quoi bon?



Is the City not worseningThis evening?The lights of the streetlampsHold on to a last glimmer of hope;They are like eyes,Votive flames,Illusory flames and eyes.

O streetlamps! They take alarmAnd sense death on the way;There is something human about them,They tremble and seem to grow pale,As if there were tears within their flame!Who will soon die?A swan, forewarned, sings on the black water . . .

It must be the City that is dyingThis evening . . .

The streetlamps weep!

“The Night is alone, like a beggar . . .”from The Mirror of the Native Sky

The Night is alone, like a beggar.The streetlamps offerTheir yellow flameAs alms.

The night is as quiet as a locked church.The melancholy streetlampsOpen their rose flame,Bright bouquets of light,Bouquets under glass, the holy relicsThat fill the Night with plenary Indulgence.



Sans doute que la Ville empireCe soir?Les veilleuses des réverbèresA peine encore un peu espèrent;Elles sont comme des yeux;Comme des feux dévotieux,Yeux et feux illusoires.

O réverbères! Ils s’alarmentEt sentent la mort en chemin;Ils ont quelque chose d’humain,Ils tremblent et semblent pâlirComme si dans leur flamme il y avait des larmes!Qu’est-ce qui va mourir?Un cygne averti chante sur l’eau noire . . .

Il se peut que la Ville meureCe soir . . .

Les réverbères pleurent!

“La Nuit est seule, comme un pauvre. . . .”from Le Miroir du Ciel Natal

La Nuit est seule, comme un pauvre.Les réverbères offrentLeur flamme jauneComme une aumône.

La nuit se tait comme une église close.Les réverbères mélancoliquesOuvrent leur flamme roseComme des bouquets de lumière,Des bouquets sous un verre et qui sont des reliques,Par qui la Nuit s’emplit d’Indulgences plénières.



The Night endures pain!The streetlamps, in a chorus,Dart their red and sulphurous flame,Like votive images,And Sacred Hearts,Which the wind bleeds with cold knives.

The Night grows inflamed!The streetlamps, in a row,Unfurl their blue flame,Along the outskirts,Like souls, stopping for rest,Souls of the day’s dead, treading the roadways,Who dream of return to their locked houses,As they linger, a long time, at the city gates.

“Sweet is the room . . .”from The Reign of Silence

Sweet is the room!—a gentle, secluded harbor,Where, weary of stretching its sails to the wind,My dream has come to rest in the mirror, pale and still.Tired! Without longing for new headways of stars,Departures for islands, my dream is sound asleepIn the profound mirror, as if in a silent canal;And why hope for some sudden gust of wind, to driveTo high seas, this soul anchored in the looking-glass?

“During those hours of sad evening . . .”from The Enclosed Lives

During those hours of sad evening, when you wish you were dead,When the heart is desolate and so weary, the soul,How soothing to approach the mirror and gaze,Calm waters of the mirror, impossible to exhaust,Where you lose yourself, drifting from shore, in retreat . . .Oh! to set out in the cooling water of the mirror,To perish, somewhat, as if in the water of twilight,



La Nuit souffre!Les réverbères en choeurDardent leur flamme rouge et soufreComme des ex–voto,Comme des Sacré-Coeur,Que le vent fait saigner avec ses froids couteaux.

La Nuit s’exalte!Les réverbères à la fileDéploient leur flamme bleue,Dans les banlieues,Comme des âmes qui font halte,Les âmes en chemin des morts de la journéeQui rêvent de rentrer dans leur maison ferméeEt s’attardent longtemps aux portes de la ville.

“la chambre, un doux port relégué . . .”from Le Régne du Silence

Oui! c’est doux! c’est, la chambre, un doux port reléguéOù mon rêve, lassé de tendre au vent ses voiles,Dans le miroir tranquille et pâle s’est cargué.Las! sans plus espérer des sillages d’étoilesEt des départs vers des îles, mon rêve dortDans le profond miroir, comme en un canal mort;Et faut-il désirer un coup de vent qui chasseEn pleine mer cette âme à l’ancre dans la glace?

“Aux heures de soir morne . . .”from Les Vies Encloses

Aux heures de soir morne où l’on voudrait mourir,Où l’on se sent le coeur trop seul, l’âme trop lasse,Quel rafraîchissement de se voir dans la glace!Eau calme du miroir impossible à tarir;On y s’oublie; on y dérive; on y recule . . .Oh! s’en aller dans le miroir réfrigérantPérir un peu comme en une eau de crépuscule,



A stagnant water, aimless, without currents,Where the nude face sinks down, always in place;You pursue, seek yourself, losing yourself forever,In backward movement, in the depths of the looking-glass.You find yourself still, but as if covered overBy a vast, endless water, barely transparent,Which allows you to observe, but pale and changed,The face that you will have when ill or very old,The most simplified face, joined in silent marriage,To the face that you will last have, when dead . . .More and more, the evening submerges the image,Forcing it down, like a surviving moon,Weakening it, like the dying sound of a horn,A face in flight and which all the shadows stain,A face, which seems already to have done,Sunken, disappeared in infinity;Oh, this play in the mirror, where you watch your own destruction!

“At evening, they appear . . .”from The Reign of Silence

At evening, they appear at the windows of the soul,Those former faces, which have remained in the glass,In spite of time, their remembrance has endured,Faces from the past, so painful to meet again;Brows ceaselessly grown pale; lips with lost bloom;Eyes covered each day with fresh layers of shadows,Which add, in our thought, the finishing touches to their death . . .The face of a mother or a wife,That lived, long ago, on intimate terms with our soul;If you could only revive their flowering, a little,Those faces in the windows, scarcely shaded,To see their features clearly, once more, in our memory!Dead faces, forever on the verge of vanishing,And then, once forgotten, incessantly emerging,Down the stream of the soul, with the distress of an Ophelia,She, with flaxen hair, who is always weeping . . .Ah! where is joy in life to be found,When the panes of the loving soul are a water,Where endlessly surfaces and endlessly drowns,Some gentle, intermittent face, with its halo.



Une eau stagnante, une eau sans but et sans courantOù le visage nu sombre à la même place.On se poursuit soi-même, on se cherche, on se perdDans le recul, dans la profondeur de la glace;On s’y découvre encor, mais comme recouvertD’une eau vaste et sans fin, à peine transparente,Qui fait que l’on se voit, mais pâle et tout changé,Visage qu’on aura malade ou très âgé,Visage tout simplifié qui s’apparente,Silencieux, avec celui qu’on aura mort . . .Le soir de plus en plus en submerge l’imageEt l’enfonce comme une lune qui surnage,Et l’affaiblit comme les sons mourants d’un cor,Visage en fuite et que toute l’ombre macule,Visage qui déjà se semble avoir finiD’aller jusqu’à l’enlizement dans l’infini.O ce jeu du miroir où soi-même on s’annule!

“Aux vitres de notre âme . . .”from Le Régne du Silence

Aux vitres de notre âme apparaissent le soirDes visages anciens demeurés dans le verre;Leur souvenir, malgré le temps, y persévère,Visages du passé qu’on souffre de revoir:Fronts sans cesse pâlis; lèvres déveloutées;Yeux couverts chaque jour d’ombres surajoutéesEt qui dans la mémoire achèvent de mourir . . .Visage d’une mère ou visage de femmeQui jadis ont vécu le plus près de notre âme.Encor si l’on pouvait un peu les refleurirCes faces, dans le verre, à peine nuancéesEt voir distinctement leurs traits dans nos pensées!Faces mortes toujours près de s’évanouirEt sans cesse émergeant,—sitôt qu’on les oublie,-Au fil de l’âme, en des détresses d’OphélieDont les cheveux de lin ont un air de rouir.Ah! comment essayer d’avoir un peu de joieQuand les vitres de l’âme aimante sont de l’eauOù reparaît sans cesse et sans cesse se noieUn doux visage intermittent dans un halo!



“Water, for the sufferer . . .”from The Reign of Silence

Water, for the sufferer, is a sister of charity,Who could satisfy not one human desire,And who hides sweetly, with a bitter smile,Beneath a veil, a robe of darkness;Her love of silence, her loathing of lifeAre so contagious, that more than one has enteredHer chapel of shadows, her pious depths,Where placidly she sings, near the green reeds,Organ of verdant pipes that accompanies her softly.

She sings! she says: “The sweet retreat that I will give To those much discouraged . . .”Ah! the gentle fascination of that heavenly voice!For their fever, it offers the coolness of an eternal bed!And many, lured by the benign call,Paralyzed, enter the water as one enters an asylum,And then die, for the water cleanses, enshrouds themIn her currents as fresh as fine linen;Then, at last, they have found gentle death.Meanwhile, the evening, all around the body at rest,Will kindle, in the dark water, a bright catafalque of stars.

“O snow, the sweet sound . . .”from The Reign of Silence

O snow, the sweet sound, who lulls the night,So gentle, you, the most pensive sister of silence,The immaculate balance in a cloak of indolence,Preserving your pallor throughout the vespers.Sweet! you smother and enfeebleAll of the tumult, shapes, uproar;Wavering snow, you seem to vanish,Far, most far away, in the haze of the streets!And you die the death, for which we have prayed,A white end, thoughtful, pious, serene,A pardoned death, which slowly tells



“L’Eau, pour qui souffre . . .”from Le Régne du Silence

L’Eau, pour qui souffre, est une soeur de charitéQue n’a pu satisfaire aucune joie humaineEt qui se cache, douce et le sourire amère,Sous une guimpe et sous un froc d’obscurité;Son amour du repos, son dégoût de la vieSont si contagieux que plus d’un l’a suivieDans la chapelle d’ombre, au fond pieux des eaux,Où, tranquille, elle chante au pied des longs roseauxDont l’orgue aux verts tuyaux l’accompagne en sourdine.

Elle chante! Elle dit: «Les doux abris que j’aiPour ceux de qui le coeur est trop découragé. . .»Ah! la molle attirance et quelle voix divine!Car, pour leur fièvre, c’est la fraîcheur d’un bon lit!Et beaucoup, aimantés par cet appel propice,Perclus, entrent dans l’Eau comme on entre à l’hospice,Puis meurent. L’Eau les lave et les ensevelitDans ses courants aussi frais que de fines toiles;Et c’est enfin vraiment pour eux la Bonne Mort.Ce pendant que, le soir, autour du corps qui dort,L’Eau noire allume un grand catafalque d’étoiles.

“O neige, toi la douce endormeuse . . .”from Le Régne du Silence

O neige, toi la douce endormeuse des bruitsSi douce, toi la soeur pensive du silence,O toi l’immaculée en manteau d’indolenceQui gardes ta pâleur même à travers les nuits.Douce! tu les éteins et tu les atténuesLes tulmutes èpars, les contours, les rumeurs;O neige vacillante, on dirait que tu meursLoin, tout au loin, dans le vague des avenues!Et tu meurs d’une mort comme nous l’invoquons,Une mort blanche et lente et pieuse et sereine,Une mort pardonnée et dont le calme égrène



A chaplet of wadding, a rosary of flakes.And the end draws near: beneath its somber veils,The sky has passed away; see how it crumbles in flakes;The sky collapses and my heart, filled with astral light,Becomes a vast cemetery of stars.



Un chapelet de ouate, un rosaire en flocons.Et c’est la fin: le ciel sous de funèbres toilesEst trépassé; voici qu’il croule en flocons lents,Le ciel croule; mon coeur se remplit d’astres blancsEt mon coeur est un grand cimetière d’étoiles!


ii Emile Verhaeren

Selections from:

The Evenings (1887)Les Soirs

Les Débâcles (1888)

The Black Torches (1891)Les Flambeaux Noirs

The Hallucinated Countrysides (1893)Les Campagnes Hallucinées

The Illusory Villages (1895)Les Villages Illusoires

The Cities with Pinions (1909)Les Villes à Pignons


Emile Verhaeren (1855–1916)

Commentary

� Emile Verhaeren was a member of the francophone bourgeoisie ofFlanders. He was born in the village of Saint-Amand, near Antwerp,and educated at Ghent and the University of Louvain, where he met

Max Waller and other founding members of La Jeune Belgique, the first importantliterary review devoted to new poetry in Belgium. During stays in Paris, Ver-haeren entered the circle of Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and the symbolist milieu ofMallarmé. Although widely known as a poet of energy and tumultuous force,Verhaeren’s early period, 1887–1890, is nonetheless steeped in decadent morbidityand reveals the dejection of the symbolist psyche. His Black Trilogy, Les Soirs(1888), Les Débâcles (1889), and Les Flambeaux Noirs (1889–90) explores the spiri-tual abandonment of a soul lost in the recesses of its own involution. The con-stant theme of this poetry is madness, the twilight of reason, given both stylisticand imagistic expression. Disjuncted grammar, insistent repetitions and ques-tions, and truncated lines of free verse convey a halting anguish and mental inco-herence. Verhaeren’s concrete images are hallucinated, outsized and exaggerated,to convey moods of alienation and tormented obsession. In this manner, Londonbecomes the poet’s private hell, an inextricable labyrinth of decay, “full of dis-mantled ships” and “splintered masts” “splayed against a sky of crucifixion.” Thebroken boats of the dockyards and the livid light convey a state of psychic disinte-gration and opaque solitude. “Vesperal” is a panorama of pain, lingeringly mov-ing from stanza to stanza through a painterly landscape of “dry-rot and leprosy.”In “Fatal Flower,” the persona seeks “the white suns of moonlight” and the scep-tical invalids of “The Ill” yearn for the smoldering “far reaches of madness andhysteria.” In the violent and blood-thirsty city of “Revolt,” a clock-face “hurls itswrathful disk” against a sky “splattered red with stars.” The poet’s orb, the moonin “Tenebrae,” is cyclopean, “a chilling eye,” presiding over a frozen landscape ofinanition. Throughout the Black Trilogy, the poet’s interior wound is mirrored infunereal landscapes of dullness, putrefaction, or deranged fury. With the combi-nation of minute observation and subjective distortion which typifies BelgianSymbolism, the world is molded and made to conform to the poet’s unflinching,nihilistic vision.

Though concentrated in the Black Trilogy, it is important to note that this darkphase of Verhaeren’s creation is not delimited. Experiences of self-torment and de-jection are recurrent in Les Campagnes Hallucinées (1893), in which madmen’ssongs form the thread of the collection, Les Villages Illusoires (1895) and Les Villes à

Emile Verhaeren 33


Pignons (1910). There is a Verhaeren, the optimistic poet of the industrial metrop-olis, but there is also Verhaeren, the consummate Symbolist, whose achievementwas to give expression to fragmented consciousness, using a French which is hisown distinctive language of poetry.

As the visual quality of his poetry would suggest, Emile Verhaeren was a subtlecritic of painting, who was among the first to understand the work of FernandKhnopff and James Ensor. The symbolist artist, William Degouve de Nunques(1867–1935) was Verhaeren’s close friend and brother-in-law. Degouve’s “A Canal,”an uncommonly elongate, flattened composition, visual analogue of Verhaeren’ssytactical distortions, depicts a ruinous building, suggestive of shattered hopes,nerves, dreams. The insistent repetition of broken windows and spiky trees, likethe obsessive refrain in Verhaeren’s poetry, is hallucinatory. In Degouve’s Flemishsnowscapes, as in Verhaeren’s polar Flanders in “Tenebrae,” there is no struggle,there is no action in a world given over to absolute immobility.

The Poetry of Emile Verhaeren:

Oeuvres complètes, 3 vols. (Genève: Slatkine Reprints, 1977).Les Villages Illusoires; Poèmes en Prose; extraits de la Trilogie Noire, ed. Christian

Berg. (Bruxelles: Labor, 1985).Les Campagnes Hallucinées; Les Villes Tentaculaires, ed. Maurice Piron. (Paris: Gal-

limard, 1982).Poèmes choisis, ed. Robert Vivier. (Bruxelles: La Renaissance du Livre, 1981).Toute la Flandre. (Paris: Larousse, 1965).



The Corpsefrom The Debacles (1888)

In her dress, the color of fire and poison,The corpse of my reasonTrails across the Thames.

Bridges of bronze, where the cartsCrash and burst in endless din,And the sails of somber boats,Cast upon her their trail of shadows.

Without a clock-hand moving across its dial,A mighty bell-tower, masked in red,Stares at her, like someoneImmensely sunk in sorrow and death.

She knew too much to live any longer,She longed too much to shape the truth,Enthroned on the pedestal of black rocks,Of every breath and every shadow.And now, she is atrociously dead,Of a venomous elixir, distilled by destiny,Dead, as well, of a delirious desire,For the most absurd, scarlet kingdom.

Her fibers have burst apart,Some evening, illuminated for joy,As she already felt its glory floatingAbove her head, like wild eagles.She is dead of impotence,Her ardor and will ground to sand,And it was she who took her life,Endlessly exhausted.

Along the funereal ramparts,All along the iron factories,Where the hammers pound the light,She trails her way to burial.

These are the piers and the barracks,Always piers and their lanterns,Slow, motionless spinnersOf the dark gold of their lights;

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La Morte

En sa robe, couleur de feu et de poison,Le cadavre de ma raisonTraîne sur la Tamise.

Des ponts de bronze, où les wagonsEntrechoquent d’interminables bruits de gonds Et des voiles de bâteaux sombresLaissent sur elle, choir leur ombres.

Sans qu’une aiguille, à son cadran, ne bouge,Un grand beffroi masqué de rouge, La regarde, comme quelqu’unImmensément de triste et de défunt.

Elle est morte de trop savoir,De trop vouloir sculpter la cause,Dans le socle de granit noir,De chaque être et de chaque chose.Elle est morte, atrocement,D’un savant empoisonnement,Elle est morte aussi d’un délireVers un absurde et rouge empire.

Ses nerfs ont éclaté,Tel soir illuminé de fêteQu’elle sentait déjà le triomphe flotterComme des aigles, sur sa tête.Elle est morte n’en pouvant plus,L’ardeur et les vouloirs moulus,Et c’est elle qui s’est tuée,Infiniment exténuée.

Au long des funèbres murailles,Au long des usines de ferDont les marteaux tannent l’éclair,Elle se traîne aux funérailles.

Ce sont des quais et des casernes,Des quais toujours et leurs lanternes,Immobiles et lentes filandièresDes ors obscurs de leurs lumières;



There reigns a sadness of rock,Houses of brick, black turrets,Where the windows, mournful eyelids,Open to the mists of evenings.These are the great stockyards of panic,Full of dismantled shipsAnd splintered masts,Splayed against a sky of crucifixion.

In her dress of lifeless jewels, solemnizedBy the wine-colored hour on the horizon,The corpse of my reasonTrails across the Thames.

She sets out for chances,Hidden in shadow and in the mist,Alongside the hushed sounds of dull tocsins,Breaking their wings at the angle of the towers.In the distance, leaving distressedThe city, breathing life,She sets out for the dark riddle,To sleep in the graveyards of evening,Where the slow, almighty oceansOpen their limitless, gaping mouth,To devour for all eternity,The grey corpses of enigma.

The Revoltfrom The Black Torches (1891)

Toward some remote city of riot and outcry,Where the guillotine flashes its shining steel,With a sudden, insane desire, my heart sets forth.

The muffled drumbeats of many wasted days,Of silenced rage and suppressed storm,Sound, in the mind, an impetuous attack.

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Ce sont des tristesses de pierres,Maisons de briques, donjons en noirDont les vitres, mornes paupières,S’ouvrent dans le brouillard du soir;Ce sont de grands chantiers d’affolement,Pleins de barques démanteléesEt de vergues écarteléesSur un ciel de crucifiement.

En sa robe de joyaux morts, que solenniseL’heure de pourpre à l’horizon,Le cadavre de ma raisonTraîne sur la Tamise.

Elle s’en va vers les hasardsAu fond de l’ombre et des brouillards,Au long bruit sourd des tocsins lourds,Cassant leur aile, au coin des tours.Derrière elle, laissant inassouvieLa ville immense de la vie;Elle s’en va vers l’inconnu noirDormir en des tombeaux de soir,Là-bas, où les vagues lentes et fortes,Ouvrant leurs trous illimités,Engloutissent à toute éternité:Les mortes.

La Révolte

Vers une ville au loin d’émeute et tocsin,Où luit le couteau nu des guillotines,En tout à coup de fou désir, s’en va mon coeur.

Les sourds tambours de tant de joursDe rage tue et de tempête,Battent la charge dans les têtes.



From the black belfry, the old clock-faceHurls its wrathful disk in the depth of the evening,Against a stunned heaven, splattered red with stars.

Tolling knells of thudding footsteps resound,As immense conflagrations, raging on roof-tops,Deface all of the capitals.

They, who could find no otherConsolation but in somber despair,Have now stepped down from their silence.

Does anyone know what it is we hear approachingUpon the pathways of the future,So quietly terrible?

All of the hatred of the world bursts in the air,And fists to seize the lighteningAre strained toward the clouds.

Now the hour has arrived when those deluded,Those destituted and abandoned Lay siege with their pride upon life.

Now is the hour and, in the distance, the alarm resounds;Crosses of muskets pound upon my door;To kill, to be killed! what can it matter?

The Bladefrom The Debacles (1888)

Brandishing a sword, someone predicted,Laughing at my sterilized pride:You will be a cipher and for your idle soul,The future will hold nothing more than a regret for the past.

Your body, where has turned sour the blood of pure ancestors,Weak and clumsy, will be broken with every effort;You will be the feverish, bent at the window,Helpless witness of the rushing of life and its golden chariots;

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Le cadran vieux d’un beffroi noirDarde son disque au fond du soir,Contre un ciel d’étoiles rouges.

Des glas de pas sont entendusEt de grands feux de toits tordusEchevèlent les capitales.

Ceux qui ne peuvent plus avoirD’espoir que dans leur désespoirSont descendus de leur silence.

Dites, quoi donc s’entend venirSur les chemins de l’avenir,De si tranquillement terrible?

La haine du monde est dans l’airEt des poings pour saisir l’éclairSont tendus vers les nuées.

C’est l’heure où les hallucinésLes gueux et les déracinésDressent leur orgueil dans la vie.

C’est l’heure—et c’est là-bas que sonne le tocsin;Des crosses de fusils battent ma porte;Tuer, être tué!—qu’importe!

Le Glaive

Quelqu’un m’avait prédit, qui tenait une épéeEt qui riait de mon orgueil stérilisé:Tu seras nul, et pour ton âme inoccupéeL’avenir ne sera qu’un regret du passé.

Ton corps, où s’est aigri le sang de purs ancêtres,Fragile et lourd, se cassera dans chaque effort;Tu seras le fiévreux ployé, sur les fenêtres,D’où l’on peut voir bondir la vie et ses chars d’or,



Your nerves will entwine you with their sapless fibers,Your nerves! —And your nails will grow soft with boredom,Your forehead, like a tombstone, will dominate your dreams,And will become your obsession, in the mirrors, at night.

To fly from yourself! —If you could! but no, the lassitudeOf others, your own, will have bent your backSo well, riveted your feet so well, that dullnessWill dethrone your mind and will seal your bones with lead.

Dazzling and clacking, the banners toward the battles,Your bloodless lip, alas, will never know them:Worn-out, your heart, your mournful heart, in disputesOver ancient texts, as if slashing away at a cloth.

You will set forth, outcast and alone, and all of the lost days Of youth will be a worthless magnetFor your wide, distant eyes—and the joyous thunderingWill herald the impetuous attack far from you, triumphantly!

The Illfrom The Evenings (1887)

Sallow and alone, they are, the skeptical ill,Made keen by all their pain. They watch the eveningGrow in their room and lengthen the facades.Nearby, a church looms and holds high its black belfry.

Dead hour, over there, somewhere in the provinces,In an extinguished town, in some unknown cornerWhere the walls are clad in mourning and portals,Where grinds the monumental hinge, like a clenched fist of iron.

Sallow and alone, the inscrutable ill,Like dismal, old wolves, fix death with their gaze;They have consumed their lives, since all days are the same,They will hate those months and years that will bring their sad end.

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Tes nerfs t’enlaceront de leurs fibres sans sèvesTes nerfs!—et tes ongles s’amolliront d’ennui,Ton front, comme un tombeau dominera tes rêves,Et sera ta frayeur, en des miroirs, la nuit.

Te fuir!—si tu pouvais! mais non, la lassitudeDes autres et de toi t’aura voûté le dosSi bien, rivé les pieds si fort, que l’hébétudeDétrônera ta tête et plombera tes os.

Eclatants et claquants, les drapeaux vers les luttes,Ta lèvre exsangue hélas! jamais ne les mordra:Usé, ton coeur, ton morne coeur, dans les disputesDes vieux textes, où l’on taille comme en un drap.

Tu t’en iras à part et seul—et les naguèresDe jeunesse seront un inutile aimantPour tes grands yeux lointains—et les joyeux tonnerresChargeront loin de toi, victorieusement!

Les Malades

Blafards et seuls, ils sont, les sceptiques malades,Aigus de tous leurs maux. Ils regardent le soirSe faire dans leur chambre et grandir les facades.Une église près d’eux lève son clocher noir.

Heure morte, là-bas, quelque part, en province,En une ville éteinte, au fond d’un coin désert,Où s’endeuillent des murs et des porches, dont grinceLe gond monumental, ainsi qu’un poing de fer.

Blafards et seuls, les malades hiératiques,Pareils à de vieux loups mornes, fixent la mort;Ils ont mâché la vie et ses jours identiquesEt ses mois et ses ans et leur haine et leur sort.



But today, huddled in the drained cynicismOf their loathing, their minds find no rest:“What if happiness resided in virile selfishness,Then to suffer wisely, all alone, by act of will?

Like all the others, they have tritely loved.They believed piously in bereavements,In suffering, in preaching gestures of apostles;Imbeciles, they were too scared to lose their pride.

Now they discuss the ways in which cruelty reconcilesBetter than love; how they were deceivedInto disguising ingratitude and blame;And so many tears spent for a few eyes they kissed one day.

Void, the golden islands, lost in distant fogs of gold,Where the enthroned dreams, clothed in red,With frail, golden fingers scattered to the foamAll the silent gold that rained from the sun.

Broken the proud masts, slack the great sails!Let the barge go where it may and the harbours fade away;The beacons no longer will strain toward the high stars,Their arms, vastly on fire—for the fires are all dead!”

Sallow and alone, the inscrutable ill,Like dismal, old wolves, fix death with their gaze;They have consumed their lives, since all days are the same,They will hate those months and years that will bring their sad end.

And now their bodies? —cage of bones for feversAnd their wooden nails, striking their scorching foreheads,And the peevishness of eyes and their thinness of lips,And a grit of bitter sand, always, between their teeth;

And regret seizes them and the posthumous desire:“To depart and live again in a new world,Where the sunset, resembling a flaming tripod,Breathes forth the god of ivory and ebony in their thought.

Beyond, in the far reaches of hysteria and of flame,And of livid froth and raucous frenzy,There we could ferociously rend and abolish the soul,Ferociously joyous, the soul and the heart.”

Emile Verhaeren 43


Mais aujourd’hui, serrés dans le pâle cynismeDe leur dégoût, ils ont l’esprit inquiété:«Si le bonheur régnait dans ce mâle égoïsme,«Souffrir pour soi, tout seul, mais par sa volonté?

«Ils ont banalement aimé comme les autres«Les autres; ils ont cru benoîtement aux deuils,«A la souffrance, à des gestes prêcheurs d’apôtres;«Imbéciles, ils ont eu peur de leurs orgueils.

«Ils discutent combien la cruauté rapproche«Mieux que l’amour; combien ils se sont abusés«A pavoiser l’ingratitude et le reproche;«Combien de pleurs, pour quelques yeux qu’ils ont baisés!

«Vides, les îles d’or, là-bas, dans l’or des brumes,«Où les rêves assis sous leur manteau vermeil,«Avec de longs doigts d’or effeuillaient aux écumes,«Les ors silencieux qui pleuvaient du soleil.

«Cassés les mâts d’orgueil, flasques, les grandes voiles!«Laissez la barque aller et s’éteindre les ports;«Les phares ne tendront plus vers les grandes étoiles,«Leurs bras immensément en feu—les feux sont morts!»

Blafards et seuls, les malades hiératiques,Pareils à de vieux loups mornes, fixent la mort;Ils ont mâché la vie et ses jours identiquesEt ses mois et ses ans et leur haine et leur sort.

Et maintenant, leur corps?—cage d’os pour les fièvresEt leurs ongles de bois heurtant leurs fronts ardents,Et leur hargne des yeux et leur minceur de lèvresEt comme un sable amer, toujours, entre leurs dents.

Et le regret les prend et le désir posthume:«De s’en aller revivre en un monde nouveau«Dont le couchant, pareil à un trépied qui fume,«Dresse le Dieu d’ébène et d’os en leur cerveau.

«Là-bas, en des lointains d’hystérie et de flamme«Et d’écume livide et de rauque fureur,«Où l’on peut abolir férocement son âme,«Férocement joyeux, son âme et tout son coeur.»



Sallow and alone, they are the tragic ill,Made keen by all their pain. They watch the ultimate firesExpiring within the town and the pale facades,Like great winding cloths, stretching toward them.

The Rainfrom Illusory Villages (1895)

Long as threads without end, the long rain,Interminably, through the grey day,Lines up the green window with its long grey threads,

An infinitude of rain,The long rain,The rain.

Lingeringly, it unravels, since yesterday evening,Hanging in heavy, soaked rags,In the taciturn, black sky,It unravels, patient and slow,Upon the pathways, since yesterday evening,Upon the roads and the winding alleys,Continuous.

The length of the byways,Which lead from the woods to the outskirts,By roads interminably twisted,They move on, grieving, dripping, steaming,The yoke-teams, with wagon-cloth bulging;In the even, beaten tracks,So ceaselessly parallel,That, at night, they seem to meet in the heavens,The water trickles, for hours on end;And the trees cry their tears and the dwellings,Soaked by the long rain,Tenaciously, vague.

Emile Verhaeren 45


Blafards et seuls, ils sont les tragiques maladesAigus de tous leurs maux. Ils regardent les feuxMourir parmi la ville et les pâles facadesComme de grands linceuls venir au-devant d’eux.

La Pluie

Longue comme des fils sans fin, la longue pluieInterminablement, à travers le jour gris,Ligne les carreaux verts avec ses longs fils gris,Infiniment, la pluie,La longue pluie,La pluie.

Elle s’effile ainsi, depuis hier soir,Des haillons mous qui pendent,Au ciel maussade et noir.Elle s’étire, patiente et lente,Sur les chemins, depuis hier soir,Sur les chemins et les venelles,Continuelle.

Au long des lieues,Qui vont des champs vers les banlieues,Par les routes interminablement courbées,Passent, peinant, suant, fumant,En un profil d’enterrement,Les attelages, bâches bombées;Dans les ornières régulièresParallèles si longuementQu’elles semblent, la nuit, se joindre au firmament,L’eau dégoutte, pendant des heures;Et les arbres pleurent et les demeures,Mouillés qu’ils sont de longue pluie,Tenacement, indéfinie.


AU: 8 lines retyped, missing from electronic file


The streams, through their rotten dikes,Discharge their burden upon the meadows,Where drowned hay drifts in the distance;The wind slaps elder and walnut-trees;Frightfully, sunk waist-high in the flood,Huge, black oxen bellow at the twisted skies.

Evening draws close, with all of its shadows,Obstructing the planes and the copse,While, forever, it goes on, the rain,The long rain,Fine and dense, sodden, like soot.

The long rain,The rain—and all of its identical threads,And its methodical fingernailsWeave the garment,Mesh by mesh, of desolation,For the houses and enclosures,Of villages, grey and doddering:Linens and chaplets of tatters,Which ravel out in fluttering rags in the wind,Along the upright staffs;Blue dove-cotes pressed to the roof;Windows and on their disastrous panes,Wound-dressings of dark bister;Lodgings, where the regular guttersForm crucifixes on the stone pinions;Windmills, uniform, mournful, plantedUpon their mounds, like horned cattle;

Belfries and adjacent chapels,The rain,The long rain,All winter long, assassinates them as well.

The rain,The long rain, with its long, grey threads,With its damply hanging hair, its ripples,The long rain,Upon ancient lands,Lethargic and eternal.

Emile Verhaeren 47


Les rivières, à travers leurs digues pourries,Se dégonflent sur les prairies,Où flotte au loin du foin noyé;Le vent gifle aulnes et noyers;Sinistrement, dans l’eau jusqu’à mi-corps,De grands boeufs noirs beuglent vers les cieux tors;

Le soir approche, avec ses ombres,Dont les plaines et les taillis s’encombrent,Et c’est toujours la pluieLa longue pluieFine et dense, comme la suie.

La longue pluie,La pluie—et ses fils identiquesEt ses ongles systématiquesTissent le vêtement,Maille à maille, de dénûment,Pour les maisons et les enclosDes villages gris et vieillots:Linges et chapelets de loquesQui s’effiloquent,Au long de bâtons droits;Bleus colombiers collés au toit;Carreaux, avec, sur leur vitre sinistre,Un emplâtre de papier bistre;Logis dont les gouttières régulièresForment des croix sur des pignons de pierre;Moulins plantés uniformes et mornes,Sur leur butte, comme des cornes;

Clochers et chapelles voisines,La pluie,La longue pluie,Pendant l’hiver, les assassine.

La pluie.La longue pluie, avec ses longs fils gris.Avec ses cheveux d’eau, avec ses rides.La longue pluieDes vieux pays,Eternelle et torpide!



Infinitelyfrom The Evenings (1887)

The hounds of despair, the hounds of the autumnal wind,Gnaw with their howling the black echoes of evenings.The darkness, immensely, gropes in the emptinessFor the moon, seen by the light of water.

From point to point, over there, the distant lights,And in the sky, above, dreadful voicesComing and going from the infinity of the marshes and planesTo the infinity of the valleys and the woods.

And roadways that stretch out like sailsAnd pass each other, coming unfolded in the distance, soundlessly,While lengthening beneath the stars,Through the shadows and the terror of the night.

Fatal Flowerfrom The Evenings (1887)

Absurdity grows like a fatal flowerIn the leaf-mold of senses, of hearts, and intellects.Nothing more, neither of heroes nor of new saviours;And we remain to wallow in native reason.

I wish to wander toward madness and its suns,The white suns of moonlight, at high noon, bizarre,And those distant, corroded echoes of clatter And baying, over there, fraught with vermilion hounds.

Lakes of roses, here, in the snow; cloud,Where nest those birds with wings of wind;Caverns of evening, where a golden toad stands guard,Motionless, as he devours a corner of the landscape.

Beaks of herons, enormously gaping for nothing at all,Insect in the light, which fidgets, immobile,Gleeful unconsciousness and the feeble tick-tockOf the peaceful death of madmen, as I hear it well.

Emile Verhaeren 49


Infiniment

Les chiens du désespoir, les chiens du vent d’automneMordent de leurs abois les échos noirs des soirs,Et l’ombre, immensément, dans le vide, tâtonneVers la lune, mirée au clair des abreuvoirs.

De point en point, là-bas, des lumières lointainesEt dans le ciel, là-haut, de formidables voixAllant de l’infini des marais et des plainesJusques à l’infini des vallons et des bois.

Et des routes qui s’étendent comme des voilesEt se croisent et se déplient au loin, sans bruit,Et continuent à s’allonger sous les étoilesA travers la ténèbre et l’effroi de la nuit.

Fleur Fatale

L’absurdité grandit comme une fleur fataleDans le terreau des sens, des coeurs et des cerveaux.Plus rien, ni des héros, ni des sauveurs nouveaux;Et nous restons croupir dans la raison natale.

Je veux marcher vers la folie et les soleils,Ses blancs soleils de lune au grand midi, bizarres,Et ses lointains échos mordus de tintamarresEt d’aboiements, là-bas, et pleins de chiens vermeils.

Lacs de roses, ici, dans la neige, nuageOù nichent des oiseaux dans des plumes de vent;Grottes de soir, avec un crapaud d’or devant,Et qui ne bouge et mange un coin de paysage.

Becs de hérons, énormément ouverts pour rien,Mouche, dans un rayon, qui s’agite, immobile:L’inconscience gaie et le tic-tac débileDe la tranquille mort des fous, je l’entends bien!



To Diefrom The Evenings (1887)

An evening overflowing with purples and red riversGrows rotten far above the dwarfed planes,And forcefully, with the fists of its clouds,Crushes, upon the greenish horizons, all of the suns.Massive season! And like October, which with indolenceAnd heedlessness, swells and dies in this scene,Apples! pears of fire! grapes! golden rosaries,Which a tremulous fingering of light caresses,One final time, before the winter. The flightOf great ravens? it will come. But now is the hourStill of leafage carved in lacquer—and the proudest.

Shoots of strawberries stain the ground with blood,The forest stretches toward the sky its hands of russet leaves,While bronze and iron resound, far away, in the distance;An odor of still water mingles with the scent of quince,And perfumes of wild iris with perfumes of moss.The pond, flat, luminous, enormously reflects,Between lithe birch trees with branches stirring,The climbing moon, heavy, red, immense,And which seems a lovely, ripe fruit, placidly come to light.

Thus to die, my body, thus to die would be the dream!Beneath a supreme rush of colors and songs,And all of the golds and sunsets held within gazes,And with streams of strength rising within the mind.To die! like flowers far too overblown, to die!Too massive and too gigantic for life!Thus would lofty death be superbly servedAnd our immense pride would suffer no offense!To die, my body! as does the autumn, to die!

Emile Verhaeren 51


Mourir

Un soir plein de pourpres et de fleuves vermeilsPourrit, par au-delà des plaines diminuées,Et fortement, avec les poings de ses nuées,Sur l’horizon verdâtre, écrase des soleils.Saison massive! Et comme Octobre, avec paresseEt nonchaloir, se gonfle et meurt dans ce décorPommes! caillots de feu! raisins! chapelets d’or,Que le doigté tremblant des lumières caresse,Une dernière fois, avant l’hiver. Le volDes grands corbeaux? il vient. Mais aujourd’hui, c’est l’heureEncor des feuillaisons de laque—et la meilleure.

Les pousses des fraisiers ensanglantent le sol,Le bois tend vers le ciel ses mains de feuilles roussesEt du bronze et du fer sonnent, là-bas, au loin.Une odeur d’eau se mêle à des senteurs de coingEt des parfums d’iris à des parfums de mousses.Et l’étang plane et clair reflète énormémentEntre de fins bouleaux, dont le branchage bouge,La lune, qui se lève épaisse, immense et rouge,Et semble un beau fruit mûr, éclos placidement.

Mourir ainsi, mon corps, mourir, serait le rêve!Sous un suprême afflux de couleurs et de chants,Avec, dans les regards, des ors et des couchants,Avec, dans le cerveau, des rivières de sève.Mourir! comme des fleurs trop énormes, mourir!Trop massives et trop géantes pour la vie!La grande mort serait superbement servieEt notre immense orgueil n’aurait rien à souffrir!Mourir, mon corps, ainsi que l’automne, mourir!



Londonfrom The Evenings (1887)

In this London of cast-iron and bronze, my soul,Where slabs of iron clack within shanties,Where sails depart without Our Lady,Without stars, through a tepid web of Chances.

Stations of soot and smoke, where gas criesIts morbid spleen of silver toward tracks of lightening,Where creatures of tedium yawn at the hour,Immensely doleful, which tolls at Westminster.

And those boundless wharfs with the lethal shinings,Withered Fates with spindles plunged into the depths,And drowned sailors beneath the petalsOf flowers grown from muddy entrails, with the glare of a flame.

And the shawls and the gestures of drunken women,And alcohol in letters of gold up to the rooftops,And all at once, death steals through the crowded streets,O my soul of evening, this black London languishing within you.

Madman’s Songfrom The Hallucinated Countrysides (1893)

The rats from the neighboring graveyard,As mid-day sounds its din,Drone in the clamorous bells.

They have gnawed at the hearts of the dead,And have grown fat and sleek on remorse.

They devour even the worm, which feeds on all things,And their appetite endures, insatiable, tremendous.

Here are the rats,Gnawing at the world,On every side, from top to bottom.

Emile Verhaeren 53


Londres

Et ce Londres de fonte et de bronze, mon âme,Où des plaques de fer claquent sous des hangars,

Où des voiles s’en vont, sans Notre-DamePour étoile, s’en vont, là-bas, vers les hasards.

Gares de suie et de fumée, où du gaz pleureSes spleens d’argent lointain vers des chemins d’éclair,

Où des bêtes d’ennui bâillent à l’heureDolente immensément, qui tinte à Westminster.

Et ces quais infinis de lanternes fatales,Parques dont les fuseaux plongent aux profondeurs,

Et ces marins noyés, sous des pétalesDe fleurs de boue où la flamme met des lueurs.

Et ces châles et ces gestes de femmes soûles,Et ces alcools en lettres d’or jusques au toit,

Et tout à coup la mort parmi ces foules,O mon âme du soir, ce Londres noir qui traîne en toi!

Chanson de Fou

Les rats du cimetière proche,Midi sonnant,Bourdonnent dans la cloche.

Ils ont mordu le coeur des mortsEt s’engraissent de ses remords.

Ils dévorent le ver qui mange toutEt leur faim dure jusqu’au bout.

Ce sont des ratsMangeant le mondeDe haut en bas.



And the church—it was once so large and solemnWith the faith of all the paupers within,And now, it is in shambles,Since they, the ravenous hordes of rats,Have gnawed all of the consecrated wafers.

The massive blocks of stone are all stripped bare,Golden alcoves, like yawning graves,Open wide to reveal their emptiness;All of the suggestive gloryTopples from the high pillars and from the apse,To the signal of a death-knell.

The rats,They have worn away all the saintly haloes,The joined handsOf faith in days after,The mystical tendernessIn the depth of ecstatic eyes,And the kisses of prayerUpon the mouths of poverty;The rats,They have stripped, worn away the entire town,From all sides, like a warehouse.

And now, while they are departing,The maddened tocsins and cattle-bells,Are all screaming for pity, screaming for mercy,Shrieking, high above the roof-tops,All the way to the bellowing echoes,But no one at all can hear; there is no one to see:For the very soul of the fieldsHas for a long time beenBlind.

And only the rats from the neighboring graveyardRemain to chatter with the hiccoughing,Clattering Angelus of the bell.

Emile Verhaeren 55


L’église?—elle était large et solennelleAvec la foi des pauvres gens en elle,Et la voici anéantieDepuis qu’ils ont, les rats,Mangé l’hostie.

Les blocs de granit se déchaussent,Les niches d’or comme des fossesS’entr’ouvrent vides;Toute la gloire évocatoireTombe des hauts piliers et des absidesAu son des glas.

Les rats,Ils ont rongé les auréoles bénévoles,Les jointes mainsDe la croyance aux lendemains,Les tendresses mystiquesAu fond des yeux des extatiquesEt les baisers de la prière;Sur les bouches de la misère;Les rats,Ils ont rongé le bourg entierDe haut en bas,Comme un grenier.

AussiQue maintenant s’en aillentLes tocsins fous ou les sonnaillesCriant pitié, criant merci,Hurlant, par au delà des toits,Jusqu’aux échos qui meuglent,Nul plus n’entend et personne ne voit:Puisqu’elle est l’âme des champs,Pour bien longtemps,Aveugle.

Et les seuls rats du cimetière proche,A l’Angelus hoquetant et tintant,Causent avec la cloche.



Tenebraefrom The Evenings (1887)

A moon, with vacant, chilling eye, staresAt the winter, enthroned vast and white upon the hard ground;The night is an entire and translucent azure;The wind, a blade of sudden presence, stabs.

Faraway, on the skylines, the long pathways of frost,Seem, in the distance, to pierce the expanses,And stars of gold, suspended to the zenith,Always higher, amid the ether, to rend the blue of the sky.

The villages crouched in the planes of Flanders,Near the rivers, the heather, and the great forests,Between two pale infinities, shiver with cold,Huddled near old hearthsides, where they stir the ashes.

Vesperalfrom The Black Torches (1891)

Over marshes of gangrene and bile,Hearts of pierced stars pour blood from the depth of the sky.

Vast, black forests and black horizonAnd clouds of despair,As they circle in futile voyages through the air,From North to South, in the closed precinct of sorrow.

Lands of stooped rooftops and seaside hovels,Where my eyes have set forth as pilgrims,My vanquished eyes, my eyes deprived of swords,Like escorts, marching before their dreams.

Leaden lands with endless sewersAnd swill brewed from aftertastes And a spigot of running nausea,Weeping over cadavers of thoughts.

Emile Verhaeren 57


Ténèbres

La lune, avec son oeil vide et glacé, regardeL’hiver régner immense et blanc sur le sol dur;La nuit est d’un total et translucide azur;Le vent, comme un couteau, soudain, passe et poignarde.

Aux horizons, là-bas, les longs chemins du gelSemblent, toujours plus loin, trouer les étendues,Et les étoiles d’or jusqu’au Zénith penduesParmi l’éther, toujours plus haut, trouer le ciel.

Les villages blottis dans les plaines de Flandre,Près des fleuves, des bruyères ou des grands bois,Entre ces deux infinis pâles, tremblent de froid,Autour des vieux foyers dont ils remuent la cendre.

Un Soir

Sur des marais de gangrène et de fielDes coeurs d’astres troués saignent du fond du ciel.

Horizon noir et grand bois noirEt nuages de désespoirQui circulent en longs voyagesDu Nord au Sud de ces parages.

Pays de toits baissés et de chaumes marinsOù sont allés mes yeux en pèlerins,Mes yeux vaincus, mes yeux sans glaives,Comme escortes, devant leurs rêves.

Pays de plomb—et longs égoutsEt lavasses d’arrière-goûtsEn chante-pleure de nauséesSur des cadavres de pensées.



Lands of memories, mired in slime,Where hatred flows free, decanted, Lands of dry-rot and leprosy,Where it is death that resounds in the bells of vespers;

Where death rings out to death,Darkly, hidden in the depth of a harbor,From below a steeple, suddenly disinterred,Like a giant corpse, amid the massive fog;

Where my heart also pours out its blood,My mournful heart, my benumbed heart,My heart of gangrene and of bile,Exhausted star in the depths of the sky.

The Rockfrom The Black Torches (1891)

Upon this carious rock, tormented by the sea,Which footsteps will ever again climb, say, which footsteps?

Say if I will finally be alone and which sustained knellWill I hear, while standing and facing the sea?

It is there that I constructed my soul.—Say, will I be alone with my soul?—Alas, my soul, mansion of ebony,Where was slivered, soundlessly, one evening,The silver-gilt mirror of all my hopes.

Say, will I be left alone with my soul,In that shadowy and anguished domain?Will I be left with my dark pride for companion,While seated in an armchair of hatred?Will I be left alone with my pale veneration,Of the holiest virgin, Our Lady of Lunacy?

Will I be left alone with the seaIn this shadowy and anguished domain?

Emile Verhaeren 59


Pays de mémoire chue en de la vase,Où de la haine se transvase,Pays de la carie et de la lèpre,Où c’est la mort qui sonne à vêpre;

Où c’est la mort qui sonne à mort,Obscurément, du fond d’un port,Au bas d’un clocher qui s’exhumeComme un grand mort parmi la brume;

Où c’est mon coeur qui saigne aussi,Mon coeur morne, mon coeur transi,Mon coeur de gangrène et de fiel,Astre cassé, au fond du ciel.

Le Roc

Sur ce roc carié que fait souffrir la mer,Quels pas voudront monter encor, dites, quels pas?

Dites, serai-je seul enfin et quel long glasÉcouterai-je debout devant la mer?

C’est là que j’ai bâti mon âme.—Dites, serai-je seul avec mon âme?—Mon âme hélas! maison d’ébène,Où s’est fendu, sans bruit, un soir,Le grand miroir de mon espoir.

Dites, serai-je seul avec mon âme,En ce nocturne et angoissant domaine?Serai-je seul avec mon orgueil noir,Assis en un fauteuil de haine?Serai-je seul, avec ma pâle hyperdulie,Pour Notre-Dame la Folie?

Serai-je seul avec la merEn ce nocturne et angoissant domaine?



Croaking black toads, shaggy with moss,Consume the bright sunlight on the lawns.A towering pillar, with nothing to support,Rears up, like a stranger, in a garden path,Vastly paved with epitaphs in marble.

On a pond of reptiles and wide-staring eyes,Gatherings of drowned swans,Toward distances of silk and crushed gold,Languidly trail their serene suicides,Amid the freesia and pallid jonquils.

And from the summit of some headland in the air,Strange cries of sea-faring birds,With piercing, viperine beaks,Which sing the demise of all who pass.

Upon this carious rock, hollowed more deeply by the sea,Say, will I be left alone with my soul?

Will I finally know that atrocious joyOf seeing, fiber by fiber, like a prey,Fierce dementia rending piecemeal my mind?

And will the crazed sufferer, released from the prisonAnd the hard labor of his reason,Ever trim the sail for undiscovered lands?

Say, to never again feel your life scalingThe dogged iron steps of every single idea,To never again hear, endlessly, within,The screeching, always the same, whether fear or rage,Toward the great unknown, which journeys in the skies:To believe in insanity, as if in a faith!

On this carious rock, driven mad by the sea,To grow old, pitiful dreamer of the steep domain,With all flesh dead and expectation set forth,Against the grain of life, immense and desolate.

Emile Verhaeren 61


Des crapauds noirs, velus de mousse,Y dévorent du clair soleil, sur la pelouse.

Un grand pilier ne soutenant plus rien,Comme un homme, s’érige en une allée,D’épitaphes de marbre immensément dallée.

Sur un étang d’yeux ouverts et de reptiles,Des groupes de cygnes noyés,Vers des lointains de soie et d’or broyés,Traînent leurs suicides tranquillesParmi des phlox et des jonquilles.

Et du sommet d’un cap d’espace,D’étranges cris d’oiseaux marins,Les becs aigus et vipérins,Chantent la mort à tel qui passe.

Sur ce roc carié que recreuse la mer,Dites, serai-je seul avec mon âme?

Aurai-je enfin l’atroce joieDe voir, nerfs après nerfs, comme une proie,La démence attaquer mon cerveau?

Et détraqué malade, sorti de la prisonEt des travaux forcés de sa raison,D’appareiller vers un lointain nouveau?

Dites, ne plus sentir sa vie escaladéePar les talons de fer de chaque idée,Ne plus l’entendre infiniment en soiCe cri, toujours identique, ou crainte, ou rage,Vers le grand inconnu qui dans les cieux voyage:Croire en la démence ainsi qu’en une foi!

Sur ce roc carié que détraque la mer,Vieillir, triste rêveur de l’escarpé domaine,Les chairs mortes, l’espérance en allée,A rebours de la vie immense et désolée;



To never again hear, hushed within your ebony house,That iron-clad silence, which causes the dead to tremble with fear;To drag long, weighted steps through the soundless hallways;To see the same hours forever marching in succession,With never a hope for better hours;

And forever to demolish the solitary lookout;Such a signal in the distance!—a presage has just appeared;Throughout the faded salons, to love the vacant seatsAnd the chambers, where the large beds have seen death,And every single evening, to feel with livid fingers,Unreason growing ripe beneath your temples.

Upon this carious rock, ruined by the sea,Say, will I finally be alone with the sea,Say, will I finally be alone with my soul?

And then to die: to once again become nothing.To be someone who no longer recollects,And who departs, without a tolling knell,Without a taper in hand,Without his knowing, that person who passes,Joyous and bright, on the smooth surface of the sea,That the shadowy and anguishing domain,Where no torch will ever again blaze,In mourning for its mansion of ebony,Conceals a corpse and its tombstone.

The Abandoned Portfrom The Cities with Pinions (1909)

A pitiful, blind lighthouse, worn away by corrosion,A few anchors scattered on the deserted pier,A windlass, rent asunder, useless forever,And, in the distance, the echoing footstep of a patrol.

Emile Verhaeren 63


N’entendre plus se taire, en sa maison d’ébène,Qu’un silence de fer dont auraient peur les morts;

Traîner de longs pas lourds en de sourds corridors;Voir se suivre toujours les mêmes heures,Sans espérer en des heures meilleures;Pour à jamais clore telle fenêtre;Tel signe au loin!—un présage vient d’apparaître;Autour des vieux salons, aimer les sièges videsEt les chambres dont les grands lits ont vu mourirEt chaque soir, sentir, les doigts livides,La déraison sous ses tempes mûrir.

Sur ce roc carié que ruine la mer,Dites, serai-je seul enfin avec la mer,Dites, serai-je seul enfin avec mon âme?

Et puis mourir; redevenir rien.Etre quelqu’un qui plus ne se souvientEt qui s’en va sans glas qui sonne,Sans cierge en main ni sans personne,Sans que sache celui qui passe,Joyeux et clair dans la bonace,Que le nocturne et angoissant domaine,En deuil de sa maison d’ébène,Où plus ne brûle aucun flambeau,Renferme un mort et son tombeau.

Le Port Déchu

Un pauvre phare aveugle, où mord la rouille;Quelques ancres sur le môle désert,Un cabestan fendu qui plus ne sert,Et, tout au loin, le pas d’une patrouille.



No sailor’s song throws into confusionThe solid threads of silence, woven in the air,As the hushed fold return home in even numbersTo their decrepit houses, with bolted doors.

Yet, in a corner of the wharf, still rises,Battered, groaning at the cruelty of the North Wind,The likeness of Lady Fortune, sculptured in wood.

But when the moment comes for night to fall,The water grows tarnished and finds solely reflected in its dreamNothing, until the dawn, but the dead gold of the moon.

Emile Verhaeren 65


Nulle chanson de matelot ne brouilleLes fils du silence tissés dans l’air,Des gens muets rentrent par nombre pairEn des maisons antiques qu’on verrouille.

Pourtant, au coin du quai, s’élève encor,Battue et gémissante au vent du Nord,L’image, en bois sculpté, de la Fortune.

Mais que vienne l’instant où la nuit choit,L’eau se ternit et plus ne mire en soi,Jusqu’au matin, que l’or mort de la lune.


iii Maurice Maeterlinck

Selections from:

HothousesSerres Chaudes1889

Fifteen SongsQuinze Chansons1900


Maurice Maeterlinck (1862–1949)

Commentary

� As a poet, dramatist, and essayist, Maurice Maeterlinck explored the inef-fable. 1889 marked the appearance of a collection of poetry, Serreschaudes, and a play, La Princesse Maleine, which created a Symbolist

drama and revolutionized the theater. Maeterlinck’s early plays, L’Intruse, LesAveugles, Pelléas et Melisande, are characterized by silence, a legendary atmosphere,anticipation of death as an omnipresent and insinuative force, and anguished,truncated utterances which express the tension between the spoken and the un-speakable. Ruptured discourse is also evident in the Serres chaudes poems, in whichMaeterlinck accumulates brief, highly visual situations, momentary flashes ofdrama, in order to express a mood of debility and anxiety. Maeterlinck’s longerpoems are expansive catalogues of displaced objects and conjunctions of oppo-sites: “A fountain rises in the middle of the room,” “There are deer in a besiegedcity,” “oriental vegetation in an ice-cave.” In their brevity, Maeterlinck’s apos-trophes are suggestive and open-ended. The ambiguous or absent link betweenthe statements contributes to their symbolist, evocative quality. An atmosphere ofstrangeness is further developed through accretions of sensory confusions, such as“whispering gazes,” or “suffocated gazes,” and conjunctions of the concrete andabstract, “the secret hounds of desires.” The Serres chaudes poems are of two types.There are the aforementioned landscapes of analogies, where hallucinations assaila prophet of the apocalypse, who reports in rapid succession the bizarre things hewitnesses. Interspersed are more succinct poems, affective and euphonious in theirsound patterns, which are reiterated litanies of waiting and dejection, addressed toan absent deity. Teeming, mephitic visions and weighted lassitude are the modal-ities of the Serres chaudes, which convey an impression of an infirm human condi-tion, man comfortless and powerless in the grasp of an implacable destiny.

The central source of imagery in Maeterlinck’s Serres chaudes are structuresformed or enclosed in glass—hothouses, bell-glasses, diving bells, various transpar-ent membranes which represent an interior space of the mind or the soul. With itslush vegetation guarded by invisible yet infrangible walls, the hothouse becomesMaeterlinck’s paradigm for the unconscious, the world of dreams which may beglimpsed, but only imperfectly explored. The various glass structures, protectiveyet enclosing, also serve Maeterlinck as metaphors for a state of spiritual claustro-phobia, the soul’s impulse to break free of constraints in order to join the un-known. Related to this impulse are the experiences of “entrevoir,” “entr’ouvrir,”dimly perceiving, half-opening to the sphere of mystery, alluring yet fearful.

Maurice Maeterlinck 69


Spiritual quest also marks Maeterlinck’s only other collection of verse, theDouze Chansons of 1896, expanded to the Quinze Chansons of 1900. The poems arebrief and folkloric, often taking the form of alternating voices engaged in questionand answer. The songs are simple yet highly ambiguous in their reiteration of asearch which remains always undefined, always failed, and always continued. Im-agery of benightedness (blindfolded eyes, blindness, caverns, extinguishedtorches), imprisonment (locked doors, lost keys), and sacrifice of the meek is re-current in the songs, which resume in miniature the atmosphere of uncertaintyand helplessness which pervades Maeterlinck’s theater.

The Poetry of Maurice Maeterlinck:

Poésies complètes. Edition critique établie par Joseph Hanse. (Bruxelles: La Renais-sance du Livre, 1965).

Oeuvres. (Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1980).



Hothouse

O hothouse lost among the trees,With your doors forever closed!As the dead voice, whispering under your dome,Calls forth the lost days of my soul.

The thoughts of a princess, fainting with hunger,The distress of a sailor, dreaming of waves in the desert,Copper music at the windows of those who are slowly dying.

On to the mildest corners!You would say a woman fainted one harvest day;There are messengers in the courtyard of the asylum;In the distance, a bounding huntsman, become a nurse, passes by.

Walk forward by moonlight!(Oh! nothing is in its place!)You would say a raving madwoman dragged to trial,A warship at full sail on a canal,Nocturnal birds perched on lilies,A knell resounding about midday,(Over there, beneath those bells!)A halting place for the diseased in the meadow,The smell of ether on a sunny day.

Oh God! Oh God! how we long for rainAnd snow and wind in the hothouse!

Nocturnal Orison

Beneath languid visions,Within my stunned prayers,I hear the hissing of passions,And the surging of enemy lusts.

I see a bitter moonlight,Beneath the nightly tedium of dreams,And upon poisonous shores,The wandering pleasures of the flesh.



Serre Chaude

O serre au milieu des forêts!Et vos portes à jamais closes!Et tout ce qu’il y a sous votre coupole!Et sous mon âme en vos analogies!

Les pensées d’une princesse qui a faim,L’ennui d’un matelot dans le désert,Une musique de cuivre aux fenêtres des incurables.

Allez aux angles les plus tièdes!On dirait une femme évanouie un jour de moisson;Il y a des postillons dans la cour de l’hospice;Au loin, passe un chasseur d’élans, devenu infirmier.

Examinez au clair de lune!(Oh rien ’y est à sa place!)On dirait une folle devant les juges,Un navire de guerre à pleines voiles sur un canal,Des oiseaux de nuit sur des lys,Un glas vers midi,(Là-bas sous ces cloches!)Une étape de malades dans la prairie,Une odeur d’éther un jour de soleil.

Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! quand aurons-nous la pluie,Et la neige et le vent dans la serre!

Oraison Nocturne

En mes oraisons endormiesSous de languides visions,J’entends jaillir les passionsEt les luxures ennemies.

Je vois un clair de lune amerSous l’ennui nocturne des rêves;Et sur de vénéneuses grèves,La joie errante de la chair.



Within my marrow, I hear arisingDesires with green horizons,And beneath forever murky skies,I suffer an unquenched thirst for stars.

I hear surging in my house,Evil, dark caresses;I see phantom marshesBeneath an eclipse on the horizons!

And I perish beneath your spite!Lord, have mercy, O Lord,Open for the sick man drenched in sweat,The grass prophesied by the moonlight!

Now is the time, Lord, now is the time,To scythe the untilled hemlock.Glimpsed through my most remote hopes,The moon is tinged green with serpents.

And the tide of evil dreams floats ever onwardWith its sins brimming in my eyes,And I hear the sighs of blue fountain streamsAs they climb toward the absolute moon.

Foliage of the Heart

Sealed within the windows of blue crystalAnd weary melancholyMy vague, abolished distressHovers in the air and slowly grows.

Vegetations of symbols,Dismal water lilies of past pleasures,Sluggish palm trees of desires,Cold moss and slack vines.

Solitary in their midst,A pale and rigid lily feeblyRaises its motionless ascentOver the woeful foliage.



J’entends s’élever dans mes moellesDes désirs aux horizons verts,Et sous des cieux toujours couverts,Je souffre une soif sans étoiles!

J’entends jaillir dans ma maisonLes mauvaises tendresses noires;Je vois des marais illusoiresSous une éclipse à l’horizon!

Et je meurs sous votre rancune!Seigneur, ayez pitié, Seigneur,Ouvrez au malade en sueurL’herbe entrevue au clair de lune!

Il est temps, Seigneur, il est tempsDe faucher la ciguë inculte!A travers mon espoir occulteLa lune est verte de serpents!

Et le mal des songes afflueAvec ses péchés en mes yeux,Et j’écoute des jets d'eau bleusJaillir vers la lune absolue!

Feuillage du Coeur

Sous la cloche de cristal bleuDe mes lasses mélancolies,Mes vagues douleurs aboliesS’immobilisent peu à peu:

Végétations de symboles,Nénuphars mornes des plaisirs,Palmes lentes de mes désirs,Mousses froides, lianes molles.

Seul, un lys érige d’entre eux,Pâle et rigidement débile,Son ascension immobileSur les feuillages douloureux,



And in the steps of its light,Like the moon, little by little,Lifts up to the closed windowA mystic, white prayer against the blue.

Soul

My soul!My too much sheltered soul!And those herds of my desires penned in a hothouseAwaiting a tempest over the grasslands.

On to the most sickly:They have strange exhalations.In their midst, I cross through a battlefield with my mother.They are burying a comrade-at-arms at noon,While the sentries eat their meal.

Let us move on to the weakest:They are drenched in strange sweats;Here is a sickly fiancée,A betrayal on Sunday,And little children in prison.(And further on, through the mist,)Is that a dying woman at a kitchen door?Or a nun shelling peas at the bedside of an incurable?

Let us go to the saddest at last:(But at the very end because they are poisonous.)On! my lips accept a wounded man’s kiss!All of the chatelaines have starved to death, this summer,

in the towers of my soul!

And here is a sunrise that joins in the magic joy!I confusedly glimpse sheep along the quay,As the hospital windows are veiled.

There is a long road from my heart to my soul!And all of the sentries are dead at their post!



Et dans les lueurs qu’il épancheComme une lune, peu à peu,Elève vers le cristal bleuSa mystique prière blanche.

Ame

Mon âme!O mon âme vraiment trop à l’abri!Et ces troupeaux de mes désirs dans une serreAttendant une tempête sur les prairies!

Allons vers les plus malades:Ils ont d’étranges exhalaisons.Au milieu d’eux, je traverse un champ de bataille avec ma mère.On enterre un frère d’armes à midi,Tandis que les sentinelles prennent leur repas.

Allons aussi vers les plus faibles:Ils ont d’étranges sueurs;Voici une fiancée malade,Une trahison le dimancheEt des petits enfants en prison.(Et plus loin, à travers la vapeur,)Est-ce une mourante à la porte d’une cuisine?Ou une soeur épluchant des légumes au pied du lit d’un incurable?

Allons enfin vers les plus tristes:(En dernier lieu, car ils ont des poisons.)Oh! mes lèvres acceptent les baisers d’un blessé!

Toutes les châtelaines sont mortes de faim, cet été,dans les tours de mon âme!

Voici le petit jour qui entre dans la fête!J’entrevois des brebis le long des quais,Et il y a une voile aux fenêtres de l’hôpital.

Il y a un long chemin de mon coeur à mon âme!Et toutes les sentinelles sont mortes à leur poste!



Once, there was a pitiful little holiday on the outskirts of my soul!They harvested hemlock there one Sunday morning;And all of the convent virgins watched the ships passing on the

canal, one day of fasting and sunshine,While the swans suffered under a venomous bridge;They were chopping down trees around the prison,They were bringing medicine one June afternoon,And meals for the sick expand over all the horizons!

My soul!And the sadness of it all, my soul, and the sadness of it all!

Prayer

You have seen my distress through the dark nights,Now you know me, my Lord,And I will carry wretched flowers from the ground,To scatter on a young corpse beneath the sunlight.

You also know my lassitude,The dimmed moon, the black dawn.Enrich, oh Lord, my barren solitude,Watering it with your divine glory.

Open your pathway for me, LordAnd light it for my weary soul,Because the sadness of my joyResembles new life beneath the frozen ground.



Il y eut un jour une pauvre petite fête dans les faubourgs de mon âme!On y fauchait la ciguë un dimanche matin;Et toutes les vierges du couvent regardaient passer les

vaisseaux sur le canal, un jour de jeûne et de soleil.Tandis que les cygnes souffraient sous un pont vénéneux;On émondait les arbres autour de la prison,On apportait des remèdes une après-midi de Juin,Et des repas de malades s’étendaient à tous les horizons!

Mon âme!Et la tristesse de tout cela, mon âme! et la tristesse de tout cela!

Oraison

Vous savez, Seigneur, ma misère!Voyez ce que je vous apporte!Des fleurs mauvaises de la terre,Et du soleil sur une morte.

Voyez aussi ma lassitude,La lune éteinte et l’aube noire;Et fécondez ma solitudeEn l’arrosant de votre gloire.

Ouvrez-moi, Seigneur, votre voie,Eclairez-y mon âme lasse,Car la tristesse de ma joieSemble de l’herbe sous la glace.



Reflections

Beneath the rising water of dream,My soul is afraid, my soul is afraid,Of the cold moonbeams in my heart,And still dream-waters of grey.

Beneath the dull sorrow of reeds,Only deep reflections still breathe,Of lilies, bright palms, and roses,Weeping in the depths of dream.

And the flowers shed their petalsOn the mirror of the sky,To descend eternally,Sinking into dreams and lights.



Reflets

Sous l’eau du songe qui s’élève,Mon âme a peur, mon âme a peur!Et la lune luit dans mon coeur,Plongé dans les sources du rêve.

Sous l’ennui morne des roseaux,Seuls les reflets profonds des choses,Des lys, des palmes et des roses,Pleurent encore au fond des eaux.

Les fleurs s’effeuillent une à uneSur le reflet du firmament,Pour descendre éternellementDans l’eau du songe et dans la lune.

Fernand Khnopff. Secret-Reflection. 1902.



Diving Bell

O diver forever within his bell!A vast sea of glass eternally warm,All that motionless life with sluggish green pendulums!And so many strange beings through the walls!And all touching forever forbidden!When there is so much life in the clear water outside!

Look out! the shadow of the great sailing ships glides over the dahlias of submarine forests;

And, for a moment, I am in the shadow of whales leaving forthe pole!

In the port, others must now be unloading ships full of snow!There was a glacier in the midst of July meadows!They swim backwards in the green water of the creek!They enter dark caverns at noon!And the breezes of the open sea fan the terraces!

Look out! here are the flaming tongues of the Gulf Stream!Keep their kisses away from the walls of tedium!They no longer place snow on the foreheads of the feverish!The sick have lit fires of joyAnd toss handfuls of green lilies into the flames!

Lean your forehead against the least warm walls, While waiting for the moon at the top of the bell,And close your eyes tight to the forests of blue pendulums and

purple albumin,While remaining deaf to the incitements of the lukewarm water.

Wipe off your desires weakened with perspiration.Go first to those on the verge of fainting;They look as if they were going to celebrate a wedding feast

in a cellar.They look as if they were going to enter at noon into a

lamplit avenue at the bottom of a vault;They cross in stately procession a landscape that resembles

an orphan’s childhood.

Next go to those who are dying.They arrive like virgins who have had a long stroll in the

sun, one day of fasting;



Cloche à Plongeur

O plongeur à jamais sous sa cloche!Toute une mer de verre éternellement chaude!Toute une vie immobile aux lents pendules verts!Et tant d’êtres étranges à travers les parois!Et tout attouchement à jamais interdit!Lorsqu’il y a tant de vie en l’eau claire au dehors!

Attention! l’ombre des grands voiliers passe sur les dahliasdes forêts sous-marines;

Et je suis un moment à l’ombre des baleines qui s’en vontvers le pôle!

En ce moment, les autres déchargent, sans doute, des vaisseauxpleins de neige dans le port!

Il y avait encore un glacier au milieu des prairies de Juillet!Ils nagent à reculons en l’eau verte de l’anse!Ils entrent à midi dans des grottes obscures!Et les brises du large éventent les terrasses!

Attention! voici les langues en flamme du Gulf-Stream!Ecartez leurs baisers des parois de l’ennui!On n’a plus mis de neige sur le front des fiévreux;Les malades ont allumé un feu de joie,Et jettent à pleines mains les lys verts dans les flammes!

Appuyez votre front aux parois les moins chaudes,En attendant la lune au sommet de la cloche,Et fermez bien vos yeux aux forêts de pendules bleus et

d’albumines violettes, en restant sourd aux suggestions del’eau tiède.

Essuyez vos désirs affaiblis de sueurs;Allez d’abord à ceux qui vont s’évanouir:Ils ont l’air de célébrer une fête nuptiale dans une cave;Ils ont l’air d’entrer à midi, dans une avenue éclairée de

lampes au fond d’un souterrain;Ils traversent, en cortège de fête, un paysage semblable à une

enfance d’orphelin.

Allez ensuite à ceux qui vont mourir.Ils arrivent comme des vierges qui ont fait une longue

promenade au soleil, un jour de jeûne;



They are as pale as the ill who listen to the placidly falling rain in hospital gardens.

They look like survivors who take their meal on the battlefield;

They are like prisoners who are not unaware that the jailorsare bathing in the river,

And who hear the grass being mown in the prison garden.

Round of Tedium

I intone the wan balladsOf kisses forevermore lost!I see weddings of the diseased,Upon love’s thick-sown lawn.

I hear voices in my sleep,So heedlessly come!And lilies open in streets,Without stars, without sun.

And those flights so slow still,And those desires that I willed,Are paupers in a palace,And candles weary in the dawn.

I await the moon in my eyes,Opened on the verge of ceaseless nights;May she finally stanch my dreams,With her cloths, so indolent and blue.



Ils sont pâles comme des malades qui écoutent pleuvoirplacidement sur des jardins de l’hôpital;

Ils ont l’aspect de survivants qui déjeunent sur le champ debataille.

Ils sont pareils à des prisonniers qui n’ignorent pas que tousles geôliers se baignent dans le fleuve,

Et qui entendent faucher l’herbe dans le jardin de la prison.

Ronde d’Ennui

Je chante les pâles balladesDes baisers perdus sans retour!Sur l’herbe épaisse de l’amourJe vois des noces de malades.

J’entends des voix dans mon sommeilSi nonchalamment apparues!Et des lys s’ouvrent en des ruesSans étoiles et sans soleil.

Et ces élans si lents encoreEt ces désirs que je voulais,Sont des pauvres dans un palais,Et des cierges las dans l’aurore.

J’attends la lune dans mes yeuxOuverts au seuil des nuits sans trêves,Afin qu’elle étanche mes rêvesAvec ses linges lents et bleus.



Touches

Touches!Darkness expands between your fingers!Brass music beneath the storm!Organ music in the sun!All of the soul’s herds lost in a night of eclipse!All of the sea salt in the grass of the meadows!And those blue fireballs on all of the horizons!(Have pity upon this power of mankind!)But those touches of your weak, damp hands!I hear your pure fingers slipping between my fingers,And streams of sheep flow in the moonlight along a warm river.

I recall all of the hands that have touched my hands.I see once again all that was out of reach of those hands,And I see today that I was sheltered from those lukewarm hands.I often became the pauper who eats bread at the foot of the throne.I was sometimes the diver who can no longer escape from the warm water!I was sometimes an entire people who could no longer leave the outskirts!And those hands like a convent without a garden!And those that shut me in like a throng of sick people in a

glass house on a day of rain!Until others, cooler, came to half-open the doors,And sprinkle a little water on the threshold!

Oh! I have known strange touches!And now they hem me in forever!They were giving alms on a sunny day,People harvested at the bottom of a crypt,There was the music of mountebanks all around the prison,There were wax figures in a summer forest,Elsewhere the moon mowed down an entire oasis,And sometimes I happened upon a feverish virgin at the bottom

of a cavern of ice.

Have pity upon the strange hands!Those hands hold the secrets of all the kings!



Attouchements

Attouchements!L’obscurité s’étend entre vos doigts!Musiques de cuivres sous l’orage!Musiques d’orgues au soleil!Tous les troupeaux de l’âme au fond d’une nuit d’éclipse!Tout le sel de la mer en l’herbe des prairies!Et ces bolides bleus à tous les horizons!(Ayez pitié de ce pouvoir de l’homme!)Mais ces attouchements plus mornes et plus las!O ces attouchements de vos pauvres mains moites!J’écoute vos doigts purs passer entre mes doigts,Et des troupeaux d’agneaux s’éloignent au clair de lune le long

d’un fleuve tiède.

Je me souviens de toutes les mains qui ont touché mes mains.Et je revois ce qu’il y avait à l’abri de ces mains,Et je vois aujourd’hui ce que j’étais à l’abri de ces mains tiédes.Je devenais souvent le pauvre qui mange du pain au pied du trône.J’étais parfois le plongeur qui ne peut plus s’évader de l’eau chaude!J’étais parfois tout un peuple qui ne pouvait plus sortir des faubourgs!Et ces mains semblables à un couvent sans jardin!

Et celles qui m’enfermaient comme une troupe de malades dansune serre un jour de pluie!

Jusqu’à ce que d’autres plus fraîches vinssent entr’ouvrir les portesEt répandre un peu d’eau sur le seuil!

Oh! j’ai connu d’étranges attouchements!Et voici qu’ils m’entourent à jamais!

On y faisait l’aumône un jour de soleil,On y faisait la moisson au fond d’un souterrain,Il y avait une musique de saltimbanques autour de la prison,Il y avait des figures de cire dans une forêt d’été,Ailleurs la lune avait fauché toute l’oasis,Et parfois je trouvais une vierge en sueur au fond d’une grotte de glace.

Ayez pitié des mains étranges!Ces mains contiennent les secrets de tous les rois!



Have pity upon hands too pale!They seem to issue from the cellars of the moon,They have worn themselves out spinning the spindle of fountain cascades!

Have pity upon hands too white and damp!It seems to me that all summer long the princesses went to

sleep toward midday.

Stay away from hands too hard!They seem to have sprung from rocks!But have pity upon cold hands!I see a heart bleeding beneath ribs of ice!Have pity upon wicked hands!They have poisoned the fountains!They have placed the young swans in a nest of hemlock!

I have seen the pagan angels parting the doors at noon!Only madmen are left on a poisonous river!There are only black sheep in pastures without stars!And the lambs stray to graze on darkness!

But those cool and loyal hands!They come to offer ripe fruit to the dying!They carry clear and cold water in their palms!They sprinkle the battlefields with milk!They seem to issue from wonderful forests, forever virgin!



Ayez pitié des mains trop pâles!Elles semblent sortir des caves de la lune,Elles se sont usées à filer le fuseau des jets d’eau!

Ayez pitié des mains trop blanches et trop moites!Il me semble que les princesses sont allées se coucher vers

midi tout l’été!

Eloignez-vous des mains trop dures!Elles semblent sortir des rochers!Mais ayez pitié des mains froides!Je vois un coeur saigner sous des côtes de glace!Ayez pitié des mains mauvaises!Elles ont empoisonné les fontaines!Elles ont mis les jeunes cygnes dans un nid de ciguë!

J’ai vu les mauvais anges ouvrir les portes à midi!Il n’y a que des fous sur un fleuve vénéneux!Il n’y a plus que des brebis noires en des pâturages sans étoiles!Et les agneaux s’en vont brouter l’obscurité!

Mais ces mains fraîches et loyales!Elles viennent offrir des fruits mûrs aux mourants!Elles apportent de l’eau claire et froide en leurs paumes!Elles arrosent de lait les champs de bataille!Elles semblent sortir d’admirables forêts éternellement vierges!



Bell-Glasses

O bells of glass!Uncanny plants forever sheltered!While outside the crystal partitions, the wind stirs my senses!An entire valley of the soul, forever motionless!And so much mildness shut in toward midday!And the strange images perceived through the crystal panes!

Never raise any of them!Several have been placed over ancient moonlight!Part the foliage and search.You might find that there is a beggar seated on a throne,One senses that pirates are lurking on the pondAnd that antediluvian beings will soon assail the cities.

Some have been placed over ancient snow-storms,Some enclose by-gone rains.(Have pity upon the heavy, stifling air.)I hear a raucous celebration on a Sunday of famine,There is an ambulance in the midst of the harvest,And all of the king’s daughters ramble, one fasting day,

through the meadows.

And especially search those glaring on the skylines!They cover with care the ancient tempests.Oh! somewhere a fleet must be afloat on a swamp!

I would swear that the swans have found young ravens in their nests!(A gaze can barely pierce the clouded glass.)

A virgin sprinkles the ferns with hot water.A flock of little girls stares at the hermit in his cell,

My sisters drift into sleep at the heart of a poisonous cavern!

Let us wait now for the moon and a white winter,To cover at last these bells, scattered over the ice.



Cloches De Verre

O cloches de verre!Etranges plantes à jamais à l’abri!Tandis que le vent agite mes sens au dehors!Toute une vallée de l’âme à jamais immobile!Et la tiédeur enclose vers midi!Et les images entrevues à fleur du verre!

N’en soulevez jamais aucune!On en a mis plusieurs sur d’anciens clairs de lune.Examinez à travers leurs feuillages:Il y a peut-être un vagabond sur le trône,On a l’idée que des corsaires attendent sur l’étang,Et que des êtres antédiluviens vont envahir les villes.

On en a placé sur d’anciennes neiges.On en a placé sur de vieilles pluies.(Ayez pitié de l’atmosphère enclose!)J’entends célébrer une fête un dimanche de famine,Il y a une ambulance au milieu de la moisson,Et toutes les filles du roi errent, un jour de diète,

à travers les prairies!

Examinez surtout celles de l’horizon!Elles couvrent avec soin de très anciens orages.Oh! Il doit y avoir quelque part une énorme flotte sur un marais!

Et je crois que les cygnes ont couvé des corbeaux!(On entrevoit à peine à travers les moiteurs)

Une vierge arrose d’eau chaude les fougères,Une troupe de petites filles observe l’ermite en sa cellule,

Mes soeurs sont endormies au fond d’une grotte vénéneuse!

Attendez la lune et l’hiver,Sur ces cloches éparses enfin sur la glace!



Weary Hunts

Today, my soul languishes,Ill with distress and absence,Diseased with darkness and silence,And my eyes flash without horizons.

Today, I perceive frozen hunts,Beneath the blue whips of memories,And the secret hounds of desire,Course along the weary slopes.

I see the packs of my dreams,Through the dimness of warm trees,And toward the white stags of lies,The yellow arrows of regrets.

God, my agonizing wishes, The warm longings of all I can see,Have faded into a panting blue,The new moon on the hill, my soul.

Gazes

O those gazes wretched and weary!And yours and mine!And those that are no longer and those still to come!And those that will never arrive and yet exist!Some seem to visit paupers on Sunday;Some are like the homeless ill;Some are like lambs in a meadow covered with washing.And those strange gazes!Under the vault of some, you watch virgins put to death

in a sealed chamber;And some make you dream of unknown sorrows!

Of peasants under the factory windows,Of a gardener become a weaver,Of a sultry afternoon in a wax museum,Of a queen’s thoughts as she watches a sick man in the garden,



Chasses Lasses

Mon âme est malade aujourd’hui,Mon âme est malade d’absences,Mon âme a le mal des silences,Et mes yeux l’éclairent d’ennui.

J’entrevois d’immobiles chasses,Sous les fouets bleus des souvenirs,Et les chiens secrets des désirsPassent le long des pistes lasses.

A travers de tièdes forêts,Je vois les meutes de mes songes,Et vers les cerfs blancs des mensonges,Les jaunes flèches des regrets.

Mon Dieu, mes désirs hors d’haleine,Les tièdes désirs de mes yeux,Ont voilé de souffles trop bleusLa lune dont mon âme est pleine.

Regards

O ces regards pauvres et las!Et les vôtres et les miens!Et ceux qui ne sont plus et ceux qui vont venir!Et ceux qui n’arriveront jamais et qui existent cependant!Il y en a qui semblent visiter des pauvres un dimanche;Il y en a comme des malades sans maison;Il y en a comme des agneaux dans une prairie couverte de linges.Et ces regards insolites!Il y en a sous la voûte desquels on assite à l’exécution

d’une vierge dans une salle close,Et ceux qui font songer à des tristesses ignorées!

A des paysans aux fenêtres de l’usine,A un jardinier devenu tisserand,A une après-midi d’été dans un musée de cires,Aux idées d’une reine qui regarde un malade dans le jardin,



Of the smell of camphor in a forest,Of locking a princess in a tower, some feast day,Of navigating an entire week on a warm canal.

Have mercy upon those that set forth with tottering steps like a convalescent during harvest!

Have mercy upon those that look like lost children at the timefor repast!

Have mercy upon the gaze of the wounded man at the surgeon,Like tents buffeted by a storm!Have mercy upon the gazes of an enticed virgin!(Oh! the rivers of milk have fled into the shadows!And the swans are dead in the midst of serpents!)

And those of a virgin who succumbs!Princesses abandoned in swamps without escape!And those eyes where ships leave at full sail, lit by a storm!And the wretchedness of all of those eyes which suffer from not

being elsewhere!And so much suffering, almost indistinct and yet so manifold!And those that no one can ever understand!And those poor gazes almost mute!And those poor gazes that whisper!And those poor, suffocated gazes!

In the midst of some, you imagine yourself in a castle become ahospital!

And so many others look like tents, battle lilies on a littleconvent lawn!

And so many others like sisters of charity on a yacht withoutthe ill!

Ah! to have seen all of those gazes!To have recognized all of those gazes!And to have worn out my own seeking them!And from now on never again to be able to close my eyes!



A une odeur de camphre dans la forêt,A enfermer une princesse dans une tour, un jour de fête,A naviguer toute une semaine sur un canal tiède.

Ayez pitié de ceux qui sortent à petits pas comme des convalescents dans la moisson!

Ayez pitié de ceux qui ont l’air d’enfants égarés à l’heure du repas!

Ayez pitié des regards du blessé vers le chirurgien,Pareils à des tentes sous l’orage!Ayez pitié des regards de la vierge tentée!(Oh! des fleuves de lait ont fui dans les ténèbres!Et les cygnes sont morts au milieu des serpents!)

Et de ceux de la vierge qui succombe!Princesses abandonnées en des marécages sans issues!Et ces yeux où s’éloignent à pleines voiles des navires

illuminés dans la tempête!Et le pitoyable de tous ces regards qui souffrent de n’être pas

ailleurs!Et tant de souffrances presque indistinctes et si diverses cependant!Et ceux que nul ne comprendra jamais!Et ces pauvres regards presque muets!Et ces pauvres regards qui chuchotent!Et ces pauvres regards étouffés!

Au milieu des uns on croit être dans un château qui sert d’hôpital!

Et tant d’autres ont l’air de tentes, lys des guerres, sur lapetite pelouse du couvent!

Et tant d’autres ont l’air de blessés soignés dans une serrechaude!

Et tant d’autres ont l’air de soeurs de charité sur uneAtlantique sans malades!

Oh! avoir vu tous ces regards!Avoir admis tous ces regards!Et avoir épuisé les miens à leur rencontre!Et désormais ne pouvoir plus fermer les yeux!



Amen

At last has come the hour to blessThe extinguished sleep of the slaves,And I await the coming of his hands,White roses in the cellars.

I await at last the coolness of his breathUpon my heart, at last sealed to deceit,Paschal lamb lost in the marshes,And wound sunk in warm water.

I await nights without days after,And weaknesses without remedy,I await his shadow on my hands,And his image in the lukewarm water.

I await your nights, at last to seeMy desire washing its face,And my dreams in the evening bath,Dying in a palace of ice.

Hospital

Hospital! Hospital alongside the canal!Hospital in the month of July!They are lighting a fire in the ward!While ocean liners whistle on the canal!(Don’t go too close to the windows!)Emigrants are walking through a palace!I see a yacht in a storm!I see herds on all the ships!(It is much better to keep the windows closed,We are almost safe from the outside.)The thought of a hothouse upon snow comes to mind,You would think they were celebrating a recovery on a stormy day.You glimpse plants scattered over a woolen blanket,And a fire on a sunny day,And I cross through a forest teeming with the wounded.



Amen

Il est l’heure enfin de bénirLe sommeil éteint des esclaves,Et j’attends ses mains à venirEn roses blanches dans les caves.

J’attends enfin son souffle frais,Sur mon coeur enfin clos aux fraudes;Agneau-pascal dans les marais,Et blessure au fond des eaux chaudes.

J’attends des nuits sans lendemains,Et des faiblesses sans remède;J’attends son ombre sur mes mains,Et son image dans l’eau tiède.

J’attends vos nuits afin de voirMes désirs se laver la face,Et mes songes aux bains du soir,Mourir en un palais de glace.

Hôpital

Hôpital! hôpital au bord du canal!Hôpital au mois de Juillet!On y fait du feu dans la salle!Tandis que les transatlantiques sifflent sur le canal!(Oh! n’approchez pas des fenêtres!)Des émigrants traversent un palais!Je vois un yacht sous la tempête!Je vois des troupeaux sur tous les navires!(Il vaut mieux que les fenêtres restent closes,On est presque à l’abri du dehors.)On a l’idée d’une serre sur la neige,On croit célébrer des relevailles un jour d’orage,On entrevoit des plantes éparses sur une couverture de laine,Il y a un incendie un jour de soleil,Et je traverse une forêt pleine de blessés.



At last the moonlight appears!

A fountain rises in the middle of the room!A group of little girls parts the door a crack!I see lambs on an island of meadows!And beautiful plants on a glacier!And lilies in a marble hall!There is a feast in a virgin forest!And oriental vegetation in an ice-cave!

Listen! They are opening the dams!And ocean liners swell the water of the canals!

But the sister of charity is stoking the fire!

All of the beautiful green reeds on the banks are aflame!A ship full of the wounded tosses on moonlight!All of the king’s daughters are on a barge in the storm!And the princesses will die in a field of hemlock!

Oh! Don’t unseal the windows!Listen! the ocean liners still whistle on the horizon!

Someone is being poisoned in the garden!They are having a great festivity at the enemies’!There are deer in a besieged city!

And a zoo in the midst of lilies!There is tropical vegetation in the depths of a coalpit!And a herd of lambs crosses an iron bridge!And the sheep sadly stray from the meadow into the room!

Now the sister of charity is lighting the lamps,She is bringing the sick peoples’ meals,She has shut the windows overlooking the canal,And all of the doors are barred to the moonlight.



Oh! voici enfin le clair de lune!

Un jet d’eau s’élève au milieu de la salle!Une troupe de petites filles entr’ouvre la porte!J’entrevois des agneaux dans une île de prairies!Et de belles plantes sur un glacier!Et des lys dans un vestibule de marbre!Il y a un festin dans une forêt vierge!Et une végétation orientale dans une grotte de glace!

Ecoutez! on ouvre les écluses!Et les transatlantiques agitent l’eau du canal!

Oh! mais la soeur de charité attisant le feu!

Tous les beaux roseaux verts des berges sont en flammes!Un bateau de blessés ballotte au clair de lune!Toutes les filles du roi sont dans une barque sous l’orage!Et les princesses vont mourir en un champ de ciguës!

Oh! n’entr’ouvrez pas les fenêtres!Ecoutez: les transatlantiques sifflent encore à l’horizon!

On empoisonne quelqu’un dans un jardin!Ils célèbrent une grande fête chez les ennemis!Il y a des cerfs dans une ville assiégée!

Et une ménagerie au milieu des lys!Il y a une végétation tropicale au fond d’une houillère!Un troupeau de brebis traverse un pont de fer!Et les agneaux de la prairie entrent tristement dans la salle!

Maintenant la soeur de charité allume les lampes,Elle apporte le repas des malades,Elle a clos les fenêtres sur le canal,Et toutes les portes au clair de lune.



Hothouse of Boredom

Blue tedium fills my heart,As a pale moon cries, shining behind clouds,Illuminating the far reaches of the skies,And my dreams, so blue with langour.

This tedium, blue as the hothouse,Where enclosed, one dimly perceives,Through panes, profound and almost green,Clothed with moonlight and sad earth,

The high vegetationStretching its nocturnal web of oblivion,Silently still as a dream,Above the red roses of all passions.

Where water very slowly rises,Mingling with the moon and the far reaches of the sky,In glaucous, eternal tears,Monotonously, like a dream.

Afternoon

My eyes have ensnared my soul,Oh God, let drift, oh God,Some leaves upon the silent snow,Some snow upon the bright fire.Sunlight warms my pillow,As the same hours always toll,And my gazes will heap flower-petals,Upon dying women who reap in the fields . . .While my hands gather only withered grass,And my eyes tarnished with sleepAre like the sickly yearning for cooling drink,Or cellar flowers exposed to the sun.

I await the relief of water upon the lawn,And upon my motionless dreamsAs my gazes on all of the horizonsFollow flocks streaming into the cities.



Serre d’Ennui

O cet ennui bleu dans le coeur!Avec la vision meilleure,Dans le clair de lune qui pleure,De mes rêves bleus de langueur!

Cet ennui bleu comme la serre,Où l’on voit closes à traversLes vitrages profonds et verts,Couvertes de lune et de terre,

Les grandes végétationsDont l’oubli nocturne s’allonge,Immobilement comme un songe,Sur les roses des passions;

Où de l’eau très lente s’élève,En mêlant la lune et le cielEn un sanglot glauque éternel,Monotonement comme un rêve.

Après-midi

Mes yeux ont pris mon âme au piège,Mon Dieu, laissez tomber, mon Dieu,Un peu de feuilles sur la neige,Un peu de neige sur le feu.J’ai du soleil sur l’oreiller,Toujours les mêmes heures sonnent;Et mes regards vont s’effeuillerSur des mourantes qui moissonnent . . .Mes mains cueillent de l’herbe sèche,Et mes yeux ternis de sommeilSont des malades sans eau fraîche,Et des fleurs de cave au soleil.

J’attends de l’eau sur le gazonEt sur mes songes immobiles,Et mes regards à l’horizonSuivent des agneaux dans les villes.



Soul of Night

My soul overflows with sadness in the end,She is weighted with the sadness of being weary,With the weariness finally of being in vain,She is sad and weary in the end,And I await your hands upon my face.

I await your pure fingers upon my face,The caresses of angels of ice,I wait for them to bring me the ring,I await their coolness upon my face,Like a treasure sunk in water.

And I await at last their remedies,Not to perish in the sunlight,To perish hopelessly in the sunlight!I wait for them to bathe my tepid eyes,Where so many paupers sigh for sleep!

Where so many swans on the sea,Swans lost, adrift on the sea,Stretch in vain their sullen throats,Where the dying wander through winter gardens,Gathering the last hope of roses.

I await your pure fingers upon my face,The caresses of angels of ice,I wait for them to moisten my gazes,The sear grass of my eyes,Where so many weary lambs are astray.

“And if he were ever to return”from Fifteen Songs

And if he were ever to returnWhat should one say?—Tell him that one longed for himTo the point of dying . . .



Ame de Nuit

Mon âme en est triste à la fin;Elle est triste enfin d’être lasse,Elle est lasse enfin d’être en vain,Elle est triste et lasse à la finEt j’attends vos mains sur ma face.

J’attends vos doigts purs sur ma face,Pareils à des anges de glace,J’attends qu’ils m’apportent l’anneau;J’attends leur fraîcheur sur ma face,Comme un trésor au fond de l’eau.

Et j’attends enfin leurs remèdes,Pour ne pas mourir au soleil,Mourir sans espoir au soleil!J’attends qu’ils lavent mes yeux tièdesOù, tant de pauvres ont sommeil!

Où tant de cygnes sur la mer,De cygnes errants sur la mer,Tendent en vain leur col morose,Où, le long des jardins d’hiver,Des malades cueillent des roses.

J’attends vos doigts purs sur ma face,Pareils à des anges de glace,J’attends qu’ils mouillent mes regards,L’herbe morte de mes regards,Où tant d’agneaux las sont épars!

“Et s’il revenait un jour”

Et s’il revenait un jourQue faut-il lui dire?—Dites-lui qu’on l’attenditJusqu’à s’en mourir . . .



And if he questions me stillWithout recognizing me?—Speak to him like a sister,He suffers perhaps . . .

And if he asks where you areWhat is one to say?—Give him my golden ringWithout saying a word . . .

And if he wants to know why The room is empty?—Show him the extinguished lampAnd the open door . . .

And if he questions me thenAbout the last hour?—Tell him that I smiled For fear that he might cry . . .

“They killed three sweet little girls”from Fifteen Songs

They killed three sweet little girlsTo see what was in their hearts.

The first was full of great glee,And wherever her blood flowed,Three serpents would hiss three years.

The second was full of meekness,And wherever her blood flowed,Three sad sheep bleated three years.

Then the third was full of sorrow,And wherever her blood flowed,Three archangels stood guard three years.



Et s’il m’interroge encoreSans me reconnaître?—Parlez-lui comme une soeur,Il souffre peut-être . . .

Et s’il demande où vous êtesQue faut-il répondre?—Donnez-lui mon anneau d’orSans rien lui répondre . . .

Et s’il veut savoir pourquoiLa salle est déserte?—Montrez-lui la lampe éteinteEt la porte ouverte . . .

Et s’il m’interroge alorsSur la dernière heure?—Dites-lui que j’ai souriDe peur qu’il ne pleure . . .

“Ils ont tué trois petites filles”

Ils ont tué trois petites fillesPour voir ce qu’il y a dans leur coeur.

Le premier était plein de bonheur,Et partout où coula son sang,Trois serpents sifflèrent trois ans.

Le deuxième était plein de douceur,Et partout où coula son sang,Trois agneaux broutèrent trois ans.

Le troisième était plein de malheur,Et partout où coula son sang,Trois archanges veillèrent trois ans.



“You have lit the lamps”from Fifteen Songs

You have lit the lamps,—Oh! the sunlight in the garden!You have lit the lamps,I see sunshine through the chinks,Open the doors to the garden!

—The keys to the doors are lost,We must wait, we must wait,The keys have fallen from the tower,We must wait, we must wait,We must await other days . . .

Other days will open the doors,The forest guards their locks,The forest around us is ablaze,It is the brightness of dead leavesThat blazes on all the doorsills.

Other days are already weary,Other days are also afraid,Other days will never come,Other days will also die,And we will die here also . . .

Canticle of the Virginfrom Fifteen Songs

For every soul that weeps,And every sin that fades,I open in the depth of stars,My hands full of grace.

No sin can surviveWhen love has spoken;No soul can dieWhen love has wept . . .



“Vous avez allumé les lampes”

Vous avez allumé les lampes,—Oh! le soleil dans le jardin!Vous avez allumé les lampes,Je vois le soleil par les fentes,Ouvrez les portes du jardin!

—Les clefs des portes sont perdues,Il faut attendre, il faut attendre,Les clefs sont tombées de la tour,Il faut attendre, il faut attendre,Il faut attendre d’autres jours . . .

D’autres jours ouvriront les portes,La forêt garde les verrous,La forêt brûle autour de nous,C’est la clarté des feuilles mortes,Qui brûlent sur le seuil des portes . . .

—Les autres jours sont déjà las,Les autres jours ont peur aussi,Les autres jours ne viendront pas,Les autres jours mourront aussi,Nous aussi nous mourrons ici . . .

Cantique de la Vierge

A toute âme qui pleureA tout péché qui passeJ’ouvre au sein des étoilesMes mains pleines de grâces.

Il n’est péché qui viveQuand l’amour a parléIl n’est âme qui meureQuand l’amour a pleuré. . .



And if love goes astray,On pathways here below,Its tears will find me,And will never be lost . . .

“I have searched thirty years”from Fifteen Songs

I have searched thirty years, my sisters,Where can he have hidden?I have walked thirty years, my sisters,Without coming any nearer . . .

I have walked thirty years, my sisters,And my feet are weary,He was everywhere, my sisters,And does not exist . . .

The mournful hour now comes, my sisters,Remove my sandals.The evening must also die, my sisters,And my soul is ill . . .

You are sixteen years old, my sisters,Go far from here,Take up the pilgrim’s staff, my sisters,And you shall search like me . . .



Et si l’amour s’égareAux sentiers d’ici-basSes larmes me retrouventEt ne s’égarent pas . . .

“J’ai cherché trente ans, mes soeurs”

J’ai cherché trente ans, mes soeurs,Où s’est-il caché?J’ai marché trente ans, mes soeurs,Sans m’en rapprocher . . .

J’ai marché trente ans, mes soeurs,Et mes pieds sont las,Il était partout, mes soeurs,Et n’existe pas . . .

L’heure est triste enfin, mes soeurs,Otez mes sandales,Le soir meurt aussi, mes soeurs,Et mon âme a mal . . .

Vous avez seize ans, mes soeurs,Allez loin d’ici,Prenez mon bourdon, mes soeurs,Et cherchez aussi . . .


iv The Young Belgians

Selections from the poetry of:

Max Waller

Albert Giraud

Valère Gille

Iwan Gilkin

Georges Khnopff

Jean Delville

Georges Marlow

Fernand Séverin

Gregoire Le Roy

Albert Mockel

Marcel Wyseur

André Fontainas


The Young Belgians

Commentary

� The 1880’s mark the beginning of an extraordinary efflorescence ofpoetry in Belgium, effected by a group of ardent young writers whosought to cultivate their individuality and artistic integrity, their national

identity, but also close ties with the internationalism of the Symbolist movementin Paris. “Soyons nous-mêmes,” “Let us be ourselves,” was the motto of La JeuneBelgique, the Brussels-based literary journal founded in 1881 and published until1897. “To be ourselves” did not mean to be delimited, closed and provincial, but tobe aware of the modern currents of philosophy and aesthetics, open to the vitalityand fervor of the symbolist poetic renewal which was taking place in Paris. Thus,the journal, La Wallonie, published in Liège for a seven year period, 1886–1893, hadan important readership in France and presented works by Mallarmé and Verlaine,as well as by Verhaeran, Maeterlinck, Elskamp, and Lerberghe. There was greatand often bitter rivalry between the literary journals, but the aesthetic quarrels aresymptomatic of the intensity of poetic creation in Belgium at the turn of the cen-tury. Stylistic and thematic diversity characterizes the outpouring of this period ofliterary resurgence and emancipation. The young Belgians gave expression to theirinner experience, each in a manner true to his own muse and the spirit of the time.


Max Waller (1860–1889)

� Max Waller was the founder of La Jeune Belgique. His original programwas Art for Art, a severance from the social preoccupations and politicalideology which characterized Belgian literary reviews of the period.

Between 1881 and 1886, La Jeune Belgique was decidedly non-conformist in tone,welcoming a variety of styles. It was during these years that Rodenbach and Ve-rhaeren were major contributors. After 1887, the journal became biased toward aparnassian clarity of style, causing many writers to give their allegiance to La Wal-lonie, more accepting of symbolist innovations.

Max Waller was a rallying figure, convinced of the need for a strong Belgianpresence in the literary innovations of the time. His charisma as an editor haseclipsed his considerable promise as a poet. “It’s Raining” and “Love-Hotel” aretender, sensual, and gently ironic examples of carpe diem. Perhaps the brevity ofWaller’s life lends in retrospect a poignant quality to these knowing pleas for amor-ous freedom. Max Waller’s poems appeared in the 1887 Parnasse de la Jeune Bel-gique, an anthology which introduced Maeterlinck and Lerberghe.



It’s Rainingfrom Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique (1887)

It’s raining, hurry over, my love,And we’ll chat away by the fireside;The grey sky will seem blueIn your eyes full of light.

We’ll toss out words at random,Like a wind of starlight,And then the sky will turn brightUpon your hair, curled with gold.

We’ll again kiss,Like the other evening.My passion will be so feverishThat the sky will seem to shine.

And in this night of infamy,Where evil thunders outside,We’ll just nestle in a corner,Very close to each other, my love.

We’ll tell the sky that it’s lying,We’ll forget how much it’s raining,Lost in sweet dreams, which cradle us,Gently exalting us.

Come, my sweet, come, now is the time,When the respectable are working hard,For our sins will be pardoned,And we’ll laugh, since the sky is crying.

Love-Hotelfrom Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique (1887)

My heart is like a grand hotel,Where my darlings come to stay a while,And pasted on their suitcases, closed tight,A flight of little Cupids, in pastel.

Max Waller 113


Il Pleutfrom Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique (1887)

Il pleut, accourez ma mignonne,Nous jacasserons près du feu,Et le ciel gris paraîtra bleuDans votre regard qui rayonne!

Nous nous dirons des mots en l’air,Des mots vifs comme des fusées,Et le ciel noir paraîtra clairDans vos chères boucles frisées!

Nous nous embrasserons encorComme l’autre soir, sur les lèvres,Et si folles seront nos fièvresQue l’affreux ciel paraîtra d’or!

Et dans cette nuit d’infamieOù des crimes hurlent au loin,Nous nous blottirons dans un coin,Tout près l’un de l’autre, m’amie.

Nous dirons à ce ciel qu’il mentNous oublierons qu’il pleut à verse,Plongés dans un rêve qui berceEt qui grise adorablement.

Viens, ma douce, viens, dis, c’est l’heureOù les gens graves font des nez . . .Nos péchés seront pardonnés:Nous rirons, puisque le ciel pleure.

Amour-Hôtelfrom Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique (1887)

Mon coeur est comme un Grand-HôtelOù descendent les bien-aimées,Et sur leurs valises ferméesVolent des Amours au pastel.



I receive them with all due respect,Kindly carry their trunks, with no idle chatter,Then they follow the alluring lure of my magnet,My loving magnet: a knowing smile.

I whisper to them in a low voice: “You will haveA very long stay, in this suitable room,And one fine day, we’ll walk in the Bois de la Cambre,Some day, when we find the time, but no time soon.

Your eyes will belong to me, your lipWill belong to me, and your handsWill wander every pathwayOf my body, inflamed with fever.

We will exhaust all the treatsOf new kisses and sweet caresses,And we will sip the guiltyFrenzy of those twin-sister lips.

We won’t turn low the nightlight,In order to shed light on our crime,And the boudoir will turn golden,With mysterious glimmers.

In the morning, very late, the waiterWill appear with a tray of rose-coloredLiqueurs and preserves of rosesAnd pralines afloat in milk.

We won’t be visiting museumsOr public galleries orThe churches, but we will see, at our leisure,The infinity of unappeased pleasure.

And when we have been all the rounds,And tried out all the dishes at table,If nothing unexpected arises,We’ll pack up and say goodbye forever.”

Max Waller 115


Je les recois sans leur rien dire,Porte leurs malles doucement,Puis elles suivent mon aimant,Mon aimant aimant: le sourire!

Je leur murmure: «Très longtempsVous habiterez cette chambre,Nous irons au bois de la CambreLe jour où nous aurons le temps.

«Vos yeux seront miens, votre lèvreSera mienne, et vos longues mainsParcourront les moindres cheminsDe mon corps éperdu de fièvre.

«Nous épuiserons les douceursDes frais baisers et des caresses,Et savourerons les ivressesCoupables de deux lèvres soeurs.

«Nous n’éteindrons pas la veilleusePour voir notre crime éclairé,Et le boudoir sera doréD’une lueur mystérieuse.

«Le matin, très tard, le valetNous servira des liqueurs roses,De la confiture de roses,Et des pralines dans du lait.

«Nous ne verrons pas les muséesNi les monuments publics, niLes églises—mais l’infiniDes voluptés inapaisées:

«Et quand nous aurons tout bien vu,Épuisé la table servie,S’il n’arrive rien d’imprévu,Nous nous quitterons pour la vie!»


Albert Giraud (1860–1929)

� Albert Giraud is best known for his debut collection of poetry, the 1884Pierrot lunaire (Paris: Lemerre), which in German translation, inspiredSchönberg’s musical setting of 1912. The world of Giraud’s commedia

dell’arte character, cruel and ironic, is closer in mood to Laforgue than to the suaveBergamasque of Verlaine’s poetry. As an artist figure, Giraud’s Pierrot is an acrobatwho bounds from being into states of absence, mental alienation, and hallucina-tion. Decapitations, suicidal hanging, and self-mutilation are recurrent themes inGiraud’s Pierrot lunaire, a guignol in which a mocking and jaunty refrain accentu-ates the bizarre subject matter.

In its brevity and in the tension between the jocose and shocking, the verse ofPierrot lunaire is Giraud’s most successful. In the later collection, Hors du siècle(1888), decadent themes are given a dense and traditional prosody. After the deathof Max Waller, Giraud assumed prominence at La Jeune Belgique and used his po-sition to rail against the stylistic innovations of Verhaeren, whose work he mis-understood and considered barbarous stammering. Giraud’s own verse in Hors dusiècle is Baudelairean, as are the themes. “Initiation,” with its emphasis on corrup-tion and tormented self-awareness, echoes Baudelaire’s “Femmes Damnées” and“L’Héautontimoroumenos.” Imagery of sacrilege, perversity, and damnation isrecurrent in the collection.



Red Massfrom Pierrot Lunaire

For the cruel Eucharist,Midst a flash of blinding goldAnd candles with troubling flame,Pierrot steps forth from the sacristy.

His hand ordained with GraceRends his white adornments,For the cruel Eucharist,Midst a flash of blinding gold.

And with a sweeping gesture of pardon,He shows the quirvering believersHis heart betwixt his bloody fingers,Like a hideous, red host,For the cruel Eucharist.

Waltz of Chopinfrom Pierrot Lunaire

Like a bloodstained kissFrom tubercular lips,This music lets sinkIts pained and morbid charm.

The white theme’s cruel lilt,Suddenly crimsons the drapes,Like a bloodstained kiss,From tubercular lips.

The gentle and violent flux,Of the melancholy waltz,Leaves me with a real savor,A stale, thick aftertaste—Like a bloodstained kiss.

Albert Giraud 119


Messe Rougefrom Pierrot Lunaire (1884)

Pour la cruelle Eucharistie,Sous l’éclair des ors aveuglantsEt les cierges aux feux troublants,Pierrot sort de la sacristie.

Sa main de la Grâce investie,Déchire ses ornements blancs,Pour la cruelle Eucharistie,Sous l’éclair des ors aveuglants.

Et d’un grand geste d’amnistieIl montre aux fidèles tremblantsSon coeur entre ses doigts sanglants,—Comme une horrible et rouge hostiePour la cruelle Eucharistie.

Valse de Chopinfrom Pierrot Lunaire (1884)

Comme un baiser sanguinolentDe la bouche d’une phtisique,Il tombe de cette musiqueUn charme morbide et dolent.

Un son cruel du thème blancEmpourpre soudain la tuniqueComme un baiser sanguinolentDe la bouche d’une phtisique.

Le rythme doux et violentDe la valse mélancoliqueMe laisse une saveur physique,Un fade arrière-goût troublant,Comme un baiser sanguinolent.



Initiationfrom Hors du siècle

Come, my child: over there, guarded by an angel,Treasurer of the secrets of forbidden Knowledge,There bleeds, for corrupted hearts, a strange vine,Twined with the hissing snake of Paradise Lost.

The angel sleeps when I wish. Come,My beautiful child, eat with wanton teethThe clusters where my mouth has bitten:Tomorrow you will know the cost of the wineAnd the power of the vintage your elder has sold you.

You will watch yourself act and think and live,You will be at once the reader and the book,The obscure writer of that hideous book.

And you will die very old, cultivating your pain,For having abdicated the scepter of your ignorance,Which raised you to the height of heroes and the gods.

The Missalfrom Hors du siècle

You, my sister, are a profaned missal,A Byzantine missal wreathed with obscene flowers,Illustrated long ago during midnight toil unclean,In the depths of a Greek cloister by a condemned monk.

O suave missal of sin, dear to my heart!Save for my desire alone, your feline caress,Your feline caress, guileful and fine,And the satin kiss of your parchment of flesh.

Save for me the fervor of your pious text,Where fiery roses, bleeding and cruel,Greedily mingle their sensual lipsAnd the breath of their most noiseless secrets;

Albert Giraud 121


Initiationfrom Hors du Siècle (1888)

Viens, mon enfant: là-bas, sous la garde d’un ange,Trésorier des secrets du Savoir défendu,Pour les coeurs dévoyés saigne une vigne étrangeOù siffle le serpent du Paradis perdu.

L’ange dort quand je veux. Va, mon bel enfant, mangeA folles dents la grappe où ma bouche a mordu:Demain tu connaîtras le prix de la vendangeEt la vertu du vin que l’aîné t’a vendu.

Tu te regarderas agir, penser et vivre;Tu seras à la fois le lecteur et le livreEt l’obscur écrivain de ce livre odieux;

Et tu mourras très vieux, cultivant ta souffrance,Pour avoir abdiqué le sceptre d’ignoranceQui te sacrait l’égal des héros et des dieux.

Le Misselfrom Hors du Siècle (1888)

Vous êtes, ô ma soeur, un missel profané,Un missel byzantin fleuri de fleurs obscènes,Historié naguère en des veilles malsaines,Au fond d’un couvent grec, par un moine damné.

O missel du péché suave qui m’est cher!Garde à mon seul désir ta caresse féline,Ta féline caresse, astucieuse et fine,Et le soyeux baiser de ton vélin de chair.

Garde-moi la ferveur de ton texte pieuxOù des roses de feu, saignantes et cruelles,Mêlent avidement leurs lèvres sensuellesEt l’haleine de leurs secrets silencieux;



And your henchmen wrapped in gold brocadeIntoxicated to watch beneath their arrows’ flight,Martyred breasts ripening like peaches,Under giant crucifixes of ebony and sun.

Your angels with their ambiguous grace, kneelingFor erotic communion, so frailThat they let fall the veil of their wingsOver the shame of a spasm, invisible and most sweet.

And your virgins walking toward pale cradles,Raising toward the naive sky their weak eyes,Not knowing that they hold on a leash,Instead of their lambs, equivocal swine.

Albert Giraud 123


Tes bourreaux lamés d’or de la nuque à l’orteilQui s’enivrent de voir, sous le vol de leurs flèches,Les seins martyrisés mûrir comme des pêchesSur de grands crucifix d’ébène et de soleil;

Tes anges, et leur grâce ambiguë, à genouxPour la communion érotique, si frêlesQu’ils laissent retomber le luxe de leurs ailesSur la honte d’un spasme invisible et très doux;

Et tes vierges marchant vers de pâles berceaux,Levant au ciel naïf les yeux de leur faiblesse,Sans même se douter qu’elles tiennent en laisse,Au lieu de leurs brebis, d’équivoques pourceaux!


Valère Gille (1867–1950)

� Valère Gille assumed directorship of La Jeune Belgique between 1890–1891 and inaugurated the journal’s most receptive and cosmopolitanphase, publishing Verlaine, Mallarmé, Henri de Regnier, and Gustave

Kahn, whose vers librisme had been of great influence in Belgium. The tenth anni-versary of La Jeune Belgique marked a reconciliation with La Wallonie and a moodof accomplishment and confraternity among Belgian writers. In 1891, a new sym-bolist review, Le Reveil, was inaugurated and would continue publication until1896.

As a poet, Valère Gille evoked states of Schopenhaurian inanition, the gentle ef-fluence from the shores of life of “Golden Slumbers.” His “Legend” is one of thebest examples of a recurrent Symbolist motif, the sleeping beauty, freed from thetaint of living, a denizen of a pure, Edenic, and interior world. Lost in a silver andwhite landscape of artifice and stillness, Gille’s sleeping princesses are emblematicof the poet as seer, absent from the quotidian realm of survival and struggle, lostin communion with the inner life.



The Slumbers of Goldfrom La Jeune Belgique 8 (1889)

I have forsaken my playthings, my mirrors, and my palms,I have scented my golden hair with violets,Bathed my body with essence of iris and violetAnd have abandoned myself to the slow water.

Nothing to ponder, nothing to wish for, in this cradleOf slumber and flowers, which gently drifts away,Love and hatred, wan madness, aimlessly drifting,—Listen to the music that sings down the stream.

White hands have closed the eyes of my childhood,Red chalices surround my sleep with perfumes,Golden leaves refresh my slumber,As indolent lutes ravish the silence.

My sisters, with their bright smiles, look at their facesAmid the childish luxuriance of roses,Amid a soft indolence of roses,Which crown their reflections in the tranquil water.

Like an azure veil, the heavens tired of light,Motionless, have fallen asleep in the moss,All of my dreams have lain down to sleep,Upon the golden sand at the bottom of the water.

Drifting away . . . see the frail columbine,Let us forget days to come and die with grace,Let us perfume our embraces and die with grace,Because now the end has arrived with its pale, long fingers.

Legendfrom La Jeune Belgique 11 (1892)

In the white forest of silverwhere the mauve shadow of the gladesexpands in clouds of light,in a diamond mist,

Valère Gille 127


Les Sommeils d’Orfrom La Jeune Belgique 8 (1889)

J’ai délaissé mes jeux, mes miroirs et mes palmes,J’ai parfumé mes blonds cheveux de violette,J’ai baigné mon corps d’iris et de violetteEt je me suis abandonné sur les eaux calmes.

Rien à penser, rien à vouloir en ce berceauDe sommeil et de fleur qui glisse à la dérive,—Ecoute la chanson qui chante au fil de l’eau.

Des mains blanches ont clos les yeux de mon enfance,Des calices vermeils parfument mon sommeil,Des feuillages d’or rafraîchissent mon sommeilEt des luths paresseux ravissent le silence.

Mes soeurs aux clairs sourires mirent leur visageParmi la floraison enfantine des roses,Parmi les indolences suaves des rosesQui couronnent dans l’eau tranquille leur mirage.

Comme un voile d’azur les ciels las de lumièreImmobiles se sont endormis dans la mousse,Tous mes rêves se sont endormis dans la mousseEt sur le sable d’or au fond de la rivière.

A la dérive . . . oh! vois ces frèles ancolies!Oublions l’avenir et mourons avec grâceParfumons nos baisers et mourons avec grâceVoici la fin suprême et sa blanche agonie.

Légendefrom La Jeune Belgique 11 (1892)

Dans la blanche forêt d’argentoù l’ombre mauve des clairières

s’ouvre en nuages de lumièresdans un brouillard de diamant,



Near the frozen fountains,amid the ferns of frost,where rose trees of snow surrenderchill flowers to the icy mirrors,

Their lilac gowns spreadaround their arms, linked in garlands,the pallid queens of legendsare leaning upon urns.

But no one having sounded the awakeningin the frozen forest, whitened with ice,the princesses could not live onand sweetly died of endless sleep.

Valère Gille 129


Autour des fontaines gelées,parmi les fougères de givreoù le rosier de neige livreaux vains miroirs ses fleurs ourlées,

Leurs robes lilas éployéesautour de leurs bras en guirlandes,les pâles reines des légendessur des urnes sont appuyées.

Mais nul n’ayant sonné l’éveildans la blanche forêt de givre,les princesses n’ont pu survivreet sont mortes de leur sommeil.


Iwan Gilkin (1858–1923)

� In Iwan Gilkin’s “Psychology,” the poet-doctor probes the “hidden ul-cers of black passions” and “dissects souls.” Such is the modality ofGilkin’s poetry, intransigently classical in form, but steeped in a predilec-

tion for the decadent and unsavory. This is particularly evident in his “Litany andPrayer,” in which Catholic form is used to unfurl a series of correspondences forerotic experience with a femme fatale, worshipped, desired, and feared. The litanyprogresses through twenty-three strophes, each dominated by an image or meta-phor, beginning with the sublime, light, beacons, continuing with the sensual,drugs, perfumes, music, and gardens, and ending in sordid and misogynous com-parisons of the woman to a brothel and leper’s asylum. Gilkin was haunted by apeculiarly turn of the century phantasm, woman as a consuming vampire, a de-stroyer of man. A sense of sin, guilt, and prurience suffuses Gilkin’s work.



Litanies and Prayerfrom La Jeune Belgique 4 (1885)

Uncanny, calm, and almighty Beauty,Fountain of Health, Mirror of Strangeness,

Listen to me!

Spiritual beacon, ignited upon the rocks,Belfry of defunct days, where the bells sob,

Call to me!

Harbor, where the white sails and the smoking steamers,Charged with valiant hearts, come from the ends of the seas,

Receive me!

Dizzying sun, you who cause visionsOf splendor and festivity to flower,

Dazzle me.

Gardener, who sows in the darkness of minds,The unexpected dreams and unheard of words,

Render me fruitful.

Majestic river, where upon the slow waterBursts the glory of scarlet and azure lotus,

Submerge me.

Ivory tower, castle which the temptationsSurround with their obsessions, but in vain,

Shelter me.

Twilit forest, where the nocturnal birdsOpen their bright golden eyes and their silent flights,

Pacify me.

Gateway to paradise, inhabited by the absurd,Hashish, the liberator from reality,

Deliver me.

Carpet of white velvet, where slowly treadThe solemn processions of arrogant thoughts,

Exalt me.

Iwan Gilkin 133


Litanies et Prièrefrom La Jeune Belgique 4 (1885)

Surnaturelle, calme et puissante Beauté,Fontaine de santé, Miroir d’étrangeté,

Écoutez-moi!

Phare spirituel allumé sur les roches,Beffroi des jours défunts, où sanglotent les cloches,

Appelez-moi.

Hâvre où les blancs voiliers et les fumeux steamersChargés de coeurs vaillants, viennent du bout des mers,

Accueillez-moi.

Soleil vertigineux, vous qui dans les yeux faitesFleurir des visions de spendeurs et de fêtes,

Aveuglez-moi!

Jardinier qui semez dans la nuit des cerveauxLes songes imprévus et les verbes nouveaux,

Fécondez-moi.

Fleuve majestueux, où sur l’eau lente éclateLa gloire des lotus d’azur et d’écarlate,

Submergez-moi.

Tour d’ivoire, château que les tentationsEntourent vainement de leurs obsessions,

Abritez-moi.

Forêt crépusculaire, où les oiseaux nocturnesOuvrent leurs clairs yeux d’or et leurs vols taciturnes,

Apaisez-moi.

Porte du Paradis, par l’absurde habité,Hatschisch libérateur de la réalité,

Délivrez-moi.

Tapis de velours blanc, où marchent cadencéesD’amples processions d’orgueilleuses pensées,

Exaltez-moi.



Flagon, where whirls within a mind of crystal,The madness of musk, amber, and sandalwood,

Perfume me.

Religious organ, whose swelling musicConstructs, within the heart, mystical cathedrals,

Raise me up.

House of gold and alabaster, where generous winesPour strong hope into the vagabonds,

Lodge me.

Silken liqueur, cream where fruits and balmsBlend their consolations and their subtle flavors,

Intoxicate me.

Manna of love, paschal lamb, unleavened bread,Miraculous feast, where the water changes to wine,

Provide for me.

Hammock, where an exotic, soft indolenceSways in shadows of refreshing palm-groves,

Lull me to sleep.

Officinal gardens with gentle flowering,Where the herb of healing grows amid the lilies,

Cure me.

Balloon, conqueror of the sublime clouds,Nostalgic carriage, rocker of long journeys,

Carry me away.

Secret book of the Sibyls, casket where sleepsFar from the learned, many an austere secret,

Instruct me.

Heavy, opulent cape, where the tawny silks,Star their golden fields with jeweled flowers,

Clothe me.

Turquoise of sweetness, ruby of cruelty,Topaz, where the light lulls the voluptuousness,

Adorn me.

Iwan Gilkin 135


Flacon, où tournent dans un cerveau de cristalLes vertiges du musc, de l’ambre et du santal,

Parfumez-moi.

Orgue religieux dont les vastes musiquesBâtissent dans les coeurs des églises mystiques,

Élevez-moi.

Maison d’or et d’albâtre, où les vins généreuxVersent aux vagabonds les espoirs vigoureux,

Hébergez-moi.

Liqueur soyeuse, crême où les fruits et les baumesFondent leur bienfaisance et leurs subtils arômes,

Enivrez-moi.

Manne d’amour, agneau pascal, pain sans levain,Festin miraculeux où l’eau se change en vin,

Nourrissez-moi.

Hamac, qu’une exotique et moelleuse indolenceA l’ombre des palmiers rafraîchissants balance,

Endormez-moi.

Jardin officinal aux douces floraisons,Où croît parmi les lys l’herbe des guérisons,

Guérissez-moi.

Aérostat vainqueur des sublimes nuages,Nostalgique wagon, berceur des longs voyages,

Emportez-moi.

Livre mystérieux des Sibylles, coffretOù dort, loin des savants, maint austère secret,

Instruisez-moi.

Lourde mante opulente où les fauves soieriesÉtoilent leurs prés d’or de fleurs de pierreries,

Revêtez-moi.

Turquoise de douceur, Rubis de cruauté,Topaze où la lumière endort la volupté

Adornez-moi.



Shameless brothel, full of filthy rapture,Entangling all of the kisses and all of the dreariness,

Drain me!

Hypocritical fish-pond, where the slimy octopusDrags his yielding tentacles over stinking gravel,

Destroy me!

Lazaret of the leprous, hospital of the poets,Dark padded cell, rotting place of the prophets,

Suffocate me!

Neronian torch, o monstrous cross, where martyrs,Anointed with grease and wax, blaze up,

Consume me!

Prayer

O You, most worshipped of all women,Bride of dead hearts and sister to young souls,Queen of ancient days, queen of days to come,You, who bend a brow stained red with poppies,Mistress of sleep, Sovereign of wakeful nights,O you, who ruled over miracles in Sheba,You, who in the age of Ahasuerus was Esther,Bathing your childlike and precious flesh,Six months in myrrh and six months in aromatics,You, who tamed the Nile on your fabled barge,Devourer of heroes, drinker of jewels,Cleopatra! the princess with strong auburn hair,Who dragged your lovers, all bruised with lewdness,From the crossroads of Rome to the gardens of Subur,Untamed Messalina—o vast and somber heart,Who would have worn out the strength of Cretan bulls;You, the eternal love, You, the eternal woman,Absurd Devouring, ignoble and solemn,Who sucks out life and empties our brains,Rekindle, rekindle, beneath your long, devout lashes,In their crystalline whites, like fluid ivory,Your ashen eyes, where broods a bitter, black flame;And the better to entwine me with desire for your arms,

Iwan Gilkin 137


Lupanar éhonté, plein d’immondes ivresses,Mêlant tous les baisers et toutes les tristesses,

Epuisez-moi!

Hypocrite vivier, où des poulpes gluantsTraînent leurs suçoirs mous sur les cailloux puants,

Dévorez-moi!

Lazaret des lépreux, hôpital des poètes,Ténébreux cabanon, pourrissoir des prophètes,

Etouffez-moi!

Torche Néronienne, ô monstrueuse croix,Où flambent des martyrs oints de graisse et de poix,

Consumez-moi!

Prière

O Vous, femme adorable entre toutes les femmes,Épouse des coeurs morts et soeur des jeunes âmes,Reine des jours anciens, Reine des jours nouveaux,Vous qui penchez un front empourpré de pavots,Maîtresse du sommeil, Souveraine des veilles,O Vous qui dans Saba régniez sur les merveilles,Vous qui fûtes au temps d’Assuérus Esther,Baignant votre enfantine et précieuse chairSix mois d’huile de myrrhe et six mois d’aromates;Vous qui domptiez le Nil sous vos galères plates,Mangeuse de héros, buveuse de bijoux,Cléopâtre!—ô princesse aux puissants cheveux roux,Qui traîniez vos amants tout meurtris de luxureDes carrefours de Rome aux jardins de Suburre,Farouche Messaline,—ô large et sombre coeur,Qui des taureaux crétois eut lassé la vigueur;Vous, l’éternel amour, Vous, la femme éternelle,Dévoratrice absurde, ignoble et solennelle,Qui sucez notre vie et videz nos cerveaux,Rallumez, rallumez, sous vos longs cils dévots,Dans leur cristallin blanc comme un fluide ivoire,Vos yeux de cendre où couve une âpre flamme noire;Et, pour mieux m’enlacer du désir de vos bras,



Braid, braid your fingers, perfumed with ananas,Like the breathing wicker of an ardent basket,Which my flesh will bathe with its red liqueur,And with your lily teeth, drunk with cruelty,Where the afflicted moon has congealed its brightness,And with your insane nails, flushed red with roses,Lacerate, knowingly, with exquisite pauses,Full of sweet regrets, full of dear kisses,My muscles and my fibers, forever unsatisfied,Until that day, Madonna, when your too smiling lipsWill press, in vain, the lips of my wounds.

Psychologyfrom La Jeune Belgique 5 (1886)

I am the doctor who dissects souls,Bending my feverish brow over corruptions,The vices, the sins, and the perversions,Of primitive instinct and its infamous hunger.

On the marble, with stomachs open, men and womenSpread out, nastily, with their contortions,The hidden ulcers of black passions.I have fingered the sore secrets of tragedies.

Then, with both arms still tinged with scrofulous blood,Poet, I have noted in my scrupulous verse,All that my sharp eyes have seen in the shadows.

And if a subject is lacking for the dissecting knife,I stretch out, in my turn, on the funereal slab,Screaming, as I jab the scalpel into my heart.

Iwan Gilkin 139


Tressez, tressez vos doigts parfumés d’ananas,Comme l’osier vivant d’une ardente corbeille,Que ma chair baignera de sa liqueur vermeille;Et de vos dents de lys, ivres de cruauté,Où la lune affligée a figé sa clarté,Et de vos ongles fous, fleuris de jeunes roses,Déchirez savamment, avec d’exquises pausesPleines de doux regrets, pleines de chers baisers,Mes muscles et mes nerfs toujours inapaisésJusqu’au jour, ô Madone, où vos lèvres trop gaiesPresseront vainement les lèvres de mes plaies.

Psychologiefrom La Jeune Belgique 5 (1886)

Je suis un médecin qui dissèque les âmes,Penchant mon front fièvreux sur les corruptions,Les vices, les péchés et les perversionsDe l’instinct primitif en appétits infâmes.

Sur le marbre, le ventre ouvert, hommes et femmesEtalent salement dans leurs contorsionsLes ulcères cachés des noires passions.J’ai palpé les secrets douloureux des grands drames.

Puis, les deux bras encor teints d’un sang scrofuleux,Poète, j’ai noté dans mes vers scrupuleuxCe que mes yeux aigus ont vu dans ces ténèbres.

Et s’il manque un sujet au couteau disséqueur,Je m’étends à mon tour sur les dalles funèbresEt j’enfonce en criant le scapel dans mon coeur.


Georges Khnopff (1880–1927)

� The uncollected verse of Georges Khnopff has been overshadowed bythe genius and lasting renown of his brother, the artist, FernandKhnopff, whose works were largely inspired by the motifs and enig-

matic style of Symbolist writing. It was Georges Khnopff who introduced hisbrother to Verhaeren and Rodenbach and to the writing of Mallarmé, for whichKhnopff provided the frontispiece in a Deman edition. Georges Khnopff wasamong the first and most active participants in the resurgence of Belgian litera-ture, his poetry appearing prominently in La Jeune Belgique between 1883 and1885. Khnopff then broke with the increasingly parnassian journal and, in a Sep-tember, 1885 letter in L’Art Moderne, a review largely devoted to the visual arts,emphasized the importance of the stylistic renewals of symbolist poetry. In 1887,Georges Khnopff joined Verhaeren at La Wallonie.

Georges Khnopff ’s “An Evening,” is dedicated to Georges Rodenbach. Thepoem conveys a mood of serenity tinged with melancholy solitude, evokedthrough concrete, visual impressions of a seashore, gilded and weighted with anopulent sunset. Overtones of German Romanticism may be discerned in thisnorthern seascape which becomes the site of spiritual experience, a presentimentof universal tranquility and devout silence.



Evening—Life: Serenityfrom La Jeune Belgique 3 (1884)

A stroke of gold at the edge of the white skies,Shudders:—the sonorous sea has soothed its rage;Lonely, streaking the brightness with its circular flight,A plaintive crying of seagulls passes.

The surge remains deaf to the sobs of the sun,As the golden orb dims in the bloodstained foam,The exhausted surge murmurs in the mistTo the snowy birds with reddened plumage.

The distances, lightly stroked by white visions,Share the sweetness of infants drowsing in swaddling;Serenity shines in the firmament.

And while the song of the stars is scattered,I hear God, as he mysteriously whispersA sweet confession of love to the heart of the silence.

Georges Khnopff 143


Soir—La Vie: Sérénitéfrom La Jeune Belgique 3 (1884)

Une barre de feu tout au bord des cieux blancsFrémit:—la mer sonore a calmé sa colère;Seul, rayant la clarté de son vol circulaire,Passe un roucoulement plaintif de goëlands;

Les flots demeurent sourds aux sanglots du soleilDont l’orbe d’or s’éteint dans la sanglante écume,Les flots exténués murmurent dans la brumeVers les oiseaux de neige au plumage vermeil;

Les lointains effleurés par des visions blanchesOnt la douceur d’enfants assoupis dans leurs langes;Et la sérénité luit dans le firmament.

Et, tandis que le chant des étoiles s’élance,J’entends Dieu chuchoter mystérieusementUn doux aveu d’amour à l’âme du silence.


Jean Delville (1867–1953)

� Both a painter and poet, Jean Delville was an animator of the cultural lifeof Brussels at the turn of the century. During stays in Paris, Delville wasinfluenced by the occultism of Villiers de l’Isle—Adam and especially

Josephin Péladan, founder of the Salon Rose-Croix for the exhibition of Idealistart. Delville was also opposed to naturalist and realist painting, seeking instead topresent images culled from exterior reality but which refer to an ineffable experi-ence of the mind. In 1892, Delville founded in Brussels the Salon Pour l’Art, whichbecame an important exhibition space for artists creating under the aura of sym-bolism. Among others, it welcomed Rodin, Gallé, and Puvis de Chauvannes. In1896, Delville opened the Salon de l’Art Idéaliste, which continued exhibitions ofart with evocative imagery. Jean Delville was a director of the Glasgow Academyof Fine Arts and professor at the Brussels Academy until 1930.

Unlike the intimist, secretive work of Fernand Khnopff, Jean Delville’s paint-ings have an imposing Wagnerian scope and grandeur, peopled by the persona ofmyth and legend. Androgynous angels, freed from contingency, and clairvoyants,surrounded by astral light, are also denizens of Delville’s painted universe.Delville’s interest in the occult is revealed in the poems, “The Sacred Book,” and“Magica,” a portrait of a clairvoyant, who transcends time and space and whoseword is allied to angels. “Lunar Park” suggests a Mallarmean landscape of evanes-cence, where “a dream of incense symphonies the lustral lake.” “The Horror of theRain,” an evocation of a locus of dejection, a “dismal city, long bereaved of sun,”reveals the stylistic and thematic influence of Emile Verhaeren.



Magicafrom La Jeune Belgique 14 (1895)

Behold the hour for your clairvoyant eyes to shine,Intent Pythoness, inert in the silent heart of evening!Your spirit has departed, lost amid the soul of the world,Seeking the treasure, as your desire weaves its magic.

The sacred flame, which reabsorbs your fleshly being,Will soon transform the chasms of life into blazing pyres,As the powers summon you to most secret sabbaths,Reality of the firmament or infernal nightmare!

The holy aromatic burns in bright vessels;For you, the world is a pure enchantment,Where you hover, dazzled, above the element,

And the angel, whom your word calls in the twilight,Will come to reflect in the depths of a black temple,The brilliance of his golden brow, in a magic mirror.

Jean Delville 147


Magicafrom La Jeune Belgique 14 (1895)

Voici l’heure où luiront tes beaux yeux de voyante,pythonisse au coeur mûr prosternée en la nuit!Parmi l’âme du monde est allé ton espritpour chercher les trésors que ton désir incante.

Le feu spirituel qui résorbe ta chairembrasera soudain les gouffres de la vie;aux sabbats enchantés le pouvoir te convie,réalité du ciel ou rêve de l’enfer!

L’aromate sacré dans les clairs réchauds brûle.L’univers est pour toi le pur enchantementoù ton être ébloui plane sur l’élément.

Et l’Ange que ton verbe évoque au crépusculeviendra réverbérer du fond du temple noirl’éclat de son front d’or au magique miroir!


Jean Delville. Expectation, 1903.



The Holy Bookfrom La Jeune Belgique 14, 1895

Turning the golden pages with my fervent hands,As if my pure fingers were handling light,O immense and luminous book, your powerful prayerUnfolds, in my night, the mystical treasure!

My spirit, in the night, opens its angel’s glances,To plunge their luster into the recesses of your wisdom;For those who read you, the secret will be known,Of how divine love changes even degradation into radiance.

—Eternal and veiling the horror of the world,An ineffable mystery has joined mankind and verse,The human ideal to the most divine flames,

And from the depth of the flesh to the reaches of the azure,You lift the veil, the enshrouder of souls,To the sybilline breath of your enchanted word.

Lunar Parkfrom La Wallonie III (1889–90)

Becalmed the profane noise of the crowd.Toward the risen Moon, the symbolic BronzesCurve, in the blue night, their antique nudity,In the sphinx-like majesty of attitudes.

A dream of incense symphonies the lustral Lake,Enchanted by the sidereal presence of Swans,Elegiacally swooning their silver-pale lines,Beneath the sacred music of astral infinitude.

Drunken with silence, the aching lawnsGrow languid in the brightness of calm reveries;Amid the somnolent shadows of the bowers

Hovers the conjugal slumber of weary birds;And the mute asphalt of the abandoned pathwaysNo longer shudders beneath the lascivious step of idylls.

Jean Delville 151


Le Livre Sacréfrom La Jeune Belgique 14 (1895)

De mes ferventes mains tournant tes pages d’or,comme si mes doigts purs palpaient de la lumière,ô Livre immense et clair, ta puissante prièrerévèle dans ma nuit le mystique trésor!

Mon esprit, dans le soir, ouvre ses regards d’angepour plonger leur éclat au fond de ton savoir;à ceux qui te liront le Secret fera voircomment l’amour divin fait rayonner la fange.

—Éternel, et voilant l’effroi de l’univers,un mystère ineffable a mêlé l’homme aux verset l’idéal humain aux plus divines flammes.

Et, du fond de la chair à l’azur consulté,tu soulèves le voile enveloppeur des âmesau souffle sibyllin de ton verbe enchanté.

Parc Lunairefrom La Wallonie 3 (1889–90)

S’accalme la rumeur profane des multitudes.Vers la Lune ascendue les Bronzes symboliquesGalbent dans la nuit bleue leurs nudités antiquesEn la sphingesque majesté des attitudes.

Un rêve d’encens symphonise le LAC lustralQu’incante la présence sidérale des Cygnes,Elégiaquement pâmant leurs albes lignesSous les musiques sacrées de l’infini astral.

S’enivrant de silence les pelouses endoloriesS’alanguissent en la clarté de calmes rêveries;Parmi l’ombrage somnolent des charmilles

Plane le conjugal sommeil des oiseaux lassés;Et l’asphalte muette des sentiers délaissésNe frémit plus sous le pas lascif des idylles.



The Horror of the Rainfrom La Wallonie IV (1891–92)

Implacably, dismally, prophetically,It is raining interminable tears of rain, it rainsdeath upon the dismal city, long bereaved of sun.It rains annihilation, immensely, upon my sleepand my tormented dreams and, in the night, it rains

implacably, dismally, prophetically . . .

Oh! the secret sorrow of the Night weepsUpon the pale wakefulness of my pensive mind.Upon the slab of my brow, with funereal sobs,it is raining lividness and obscurity,upon the pale wakefulness of my pensive mind,oh! the secret sorrow of the Night weeps . . .


It is raining, it is raining lethargy upon my flesh,rigidly, like chimerical haircloths,which come to mortify the lecherous obsessions,it is raining upon my feverish body, scorched with gasps,Rigidly, like chimerical haircloths,it is raining lethargy, it is raining upon my flesh . . .


The Marmorean Slumbersfrom La Wallonie IV (1891–92)

Thus, the souls of dismal feudal lineage,Perpetuating their pride in illustrious sepulchers,Stretch out their long, marble sleep upon the flagstones,Weighted with dead centuries and funereal pasts,

The heraldic and grandiose white cadavers,With righteous hands joined in ardent rigidity,Pallid with faith, that rise from their bosoms,With sacerdotal gestures of prayer in eternity.

Jean Delville 153


L’Horreur de la Pluiefrom La Wallonie 4 (1891–92)

Implacablement, mornement, fatidiquementil pleut d’interminables pleurs de pluie, il pleutde la mort sur la ville morne et morte de soleil.Il pleut du néant, immensément, sur mon sommeilet mes songes de spleen et dans la Nuit, il pleut

implacablement, mornement, fatidiquement . . .

Oh! la ténébreuse douleur de la Nuit pleureSur la veillée pâle de mon cerveau pensif.Sur la dalle de mon front en sanglots funèbresil pleut des lividités et des ténèbres,sur la veillée pâle de mon cerveau pensifoh! la ténébreuse douleur de la Nuit pleure . . .


Il pleut, il pleut de la léthargie sur ma chair,rigidement comme des cilices fantastiquesqui veulent macérer les hantises stuprales,il pleut sur mon corps ardent brûlé de râles.Rigidement comme des cilices fantastiquesil pleut de la léthargie, il pleut sur ma chair . . .


Les Sommeils de Marbrefrom La Wallonie 4 (1891–92)

Ainsi les Ames des mornes races féodalesperpétuant l’orgueil en sépulcres célèbres,gisent leur long sommeil de marbre sur les dalleslourdes de siècles morts et de passés funèbres,

les héraldiques et grands cadavres blancsaux droites mains jointes d’ardente rigiditéet qui, blèmes de foi, s’érigent hors les flancshiératiquement pour des prières d’éternité.



Beneath a heavy mourning of shadows in the tumulus crypts,Within the illustrious vision of their solemn brows slumbers,The barbarous splendor of age-old reigns.

And their bodies, where the original blood has congealed,Sealed within the marbles, austerely patrician,Are the petrified Phantoms of ancient times.

Jean Delville 155


Sous le lourd deuil d’ombres des cryptes tumulairesdort en le songe illustre de leur front solennel,la barbare splendeur des règnes séculaires.

Et leurs corps où s’est glacé le sang originel,sont dans les marbres—rigidement patriciens—les Fantômes pétrifiés des temps anciens.


Georges Marlow (1872–1947)

� Of British and Liègois descent, Georges Marlow was born and raised inthe Flemish city of Malines. He was a physician and a writer, elected toboth the directing committee of the College of Medicine and to the

Royal Academy of Letters. His principal literary activity was as a critic and culturalambassador, contributing a monthly “Chroniques de la Belgique” to the Mercurede France between 1919–32 and 1936–40. He founded and edited Le Masque, oneof the last symbolist reviews, published 1911–14. He contributed poems in his ownname and as Paul Alériel, often in the same issue, to Le Reveil, the journal whichwas the successor of La Wallonie.

In his 1895 collection, L’Ame en exil, Georges Marlow evokes Malines as a deadcity, an interiorized space of remembrance, using a gently musical, Verlainian styleto express the theme inaugurated by Rodenbach. As a city encompassed by thesoul, Marlow’s Malines is evoked in a series of diminutives. In “At Evening I,” it isthe “little, desolate city,” “the slender city,” where the bells are a “bit melancholy”and all is dimmed. Marlow’s city seems remote and suggestive to the extent that itis etherialized to the dimension of a delicate book illumination from the vanishedFlemish past.



At Evening Ifrom Le Reveil 3 (1893)

Little city, and you the Bells,My sisters, whose vague music,A bit melancholy,Snows its reproaches within my soul.

Little desolate city,Who remembers all the dead voices,All the withered voices,That the autumn sweeps away with the flowers,

Say, are you crying over my childhood,Where all the gleams have dimmed,Under the frail wing of silence,Little city of dear plaints? . . .

The sweet Child never came at all And will surely never come . . .Gone, the lilies in the avenuesAnd no more roses along the roads!

All the flowers have faded away,With the sad melodies of the years,And in this waiting, but so in vain,My soul hovers, faintly,

Amid your sonorous turrets,Slender city of a thousand bells,Amid the parcels of dawnThat the sky hangs on your towers.

Georges Marlow 159


Du Soirfrom Le Reveil 3 (1893)

Petite ville et vous les ClochesMes Soeurs, dont la vague musiqueUn tantinet mélancoliqueNeige en mon âme ses reproches,

Petite ville désoléeQui vous souvenez des voix mortes,De toutes les voix en alléesQu’avec les fleurs l’automne emporte,

Dites, pleurez-vous mon enfanceOù les lueurs se sont éteintesSous l’aile frêle du silencePetite ville aux chères plaintes? . . .

La douce Enfant n’est point venueEt ne viendra jamais sans doute . . .O plus de lys dans l’avenueEt plus de roses sur la route!

Toutes les fleurs se sont fanéesEn cette attente combien vaineAux chansons tristes des années,Et mon âme plane incertaine,

Parmi vos tourelles sonoresFluette ville aux mille cloches,Parmi les parcelles d’auroreQu’à vos donjons le ciel accroche! . . .


ED: maintained Severin per email of January 17, 2003 2:06 PM

Fernand Severin (1867–1931)

� Fernand Severin has tenuous ties with the literary revival in Belgium atthe turn of the century. During his student days in Brussels, Severin con-tributed poems to La Jeune Belgique, published in 1888 as Le Lys, a series

having to do with unfulfilled waiting for an imagined beloved. Severin later repu-diated the volume as juvenilia. During the twelve years he spent as a teacher at Vir-ton in the Ardennes, Severin cultivated a classical style and direct discourse to ex-press a romantic love of nature. The poetry published in the 1895 Un Chant dansl’ombre, although dedicated to his friend, Charles Van Lerberghe, is distanced fromthe symbolist creation of the author of La Chanson d’Eve.

Severin’s early poetry remains interesting, a juncture of Racine and Verlaine, ashis contemporary, Albert Arnay, commented in La Wallonie IV. In Severin’s 1886“She, Who Will Come,” the poet’s desire for a private space of love leads to an im-agined Liebestod in a shrine where the lovers “sleep enlaced upon faded roses.”



She, Who Will Comefrom La Jeune Belgique 5 (1886)

You, who will come from the distances of hopeIn the gardens of lilies, where my lips await,Say to me only words full of dream and evening,To calm, within me, the fire of ancient fevers.

May your love be for me the intended tomb,Where we will sleep, enlaced, upon faded roses,The lips of the beloved pressed to the brow of the chosen,And may thus the flower of our years disappear.

Nothing will really live, but that which we conceal,And to perpetuate this moment that we are,May our precious bouquets die away while in budAnd hide their fragrance from the vain kisses of men.

The sorrow of lovers and the tedium of the married,Those pitiful satiated, whose soul is in exile,Will arrive at our threshold and will go away from us,Without ever suspecting the peace they approached.

And we will watch them, bearing away their cross,With eyes in tears, with our boundless pity,And these, our amorous eyes, will sometimes understandHow to bring a smile to blighted, mournful gazes.

And none among these men of latter daysWill know that love offered this precious gift to them;As soon as they return to their thirst, their hunger,They will curse the day, fallen into death.

Fernand Severin 163


A Celle qui Viendrafrom La Jeune Belgique 5 (1886)

O toi qui me viendras des lointains de l’espoirDans les jardins de lys où t’attendent mes lèvres,Ne me dis que des mots pleins de rêve et de soirEt qui calment en moi le feu des vieilles fièvres.

Que ton amour me soit un sépulcre vouluOù l’on dorme enlacés dans des roses fanées,Les lèvres de l’aimée au front las de l’élu,Et que s’écroule ainsi la fleur de nos années.

Rien ne vivra vraiment que ce que nous tairons,Et pour éterniser cet instant que nous sommesPuissent nos chers bouquets se mourir en boutonsEt céler leur parfum au vain baiser des hommes.

La douleur des amants et l’ennui des époux,Ces pauvres assouvis dont l’âme est exilée,Viendront à notre seuil et s’en iront de nousSans soupconner jamais la paix qu’ils ont frôlée.

Aussi les verrons-nous s’en aller sous leurs croixAvec les yeux en pleurs, d’une pitié sans bornes,Et ces yeux amoureux s’entendront quelquefoisPour donner un sourire aux yeux flétris et mornes.

Et nul jamais parmi ces hommes de la finNe saura que l’amour leur fit ce don sublime,Et sitôt de retour, dans leur soif et leur faim,Ils maudiront le jour tombé dans leur abîme.


Gregoire Le Roy (1862–1941)

� Along with Maurice Maeterlinck and Charles Van Lerberghe, GregoireLe Roy was the third member of the Ghent triumvirate that made its lit-erary debut together in the 1887 Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique. Le Roy’s

most important symbolist collection is Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois (Paris:Van-nier, 1889), characterized by repetitive rhymes, series of hypnotic spinning songs,conducive to the suppression of the vigilance of the conscious mind. The folkloricstyle is used to evoke spatializations of the ineffable, effected through junctures ofthe concrete and abstract similar to those found in Maeterlinck’s Serres chaudes. In“Wretchedness,” Le Roy’s mendicant “begs on the shores of deceased time.” His“palace of dreams” has been ransacked by the “envious masses of falsehoods.” Theindeterminate takes both a spatial and auditory form in “Dimmed Christmases,”“Do you hear over there, over there, in my thoughts, / The grandmothers as theyrecount fabulous tales?” Nostalgia is the constant theme of Mon Coeur Pleured’Autrefois, not for any specific, lost past, but for the veiled life of the unconscious,“The remembrance of things / That never were for us, but a memory!” Le Roy’s isa collection of dream formations coaxed to the borderline of consciousness, reliantupon a lulling expression which in turn provokes reverie on the part of the reader.In Fernand Khnopff ’s 1889 frontispiece for the collection, a narcissistic kiss in anaqueous mirror and the bridge and gateway of the Beguinage at Bruges serve asemblems of entrance into the inner world.

In 1907, Le Roy published La Chanson du Pauvre, eighteen years after MonCoeur Pleure d’Autrefois, using a Verlainean style to express themes of Flemishcountry life found in Verhaeren’s Villages Illusoires and Les Campagnes Hallucineés.Le Roy turned to the study of the visual arts, became a painter and curator of theMusée Wiertz in Brussels.



Wretchednessfrom My Heart Weeps for Days Long Past (1889)

Since the palace of my dreamsAnd of my loves was laid wasteBy the envious masses of falsehoods,I trail my pale royalty.

Now I am the strange pauper of dreams,The mendicant of ancient perfumes,The exiled from starving shores,Who begs on the roads of deceased time.

And you, the women who pass through my pain,If my love implores you, know that it is lying,Because my impoverished hands are held in prayerOnly for a little memory.. . . .

The Fiancée of Shadowsfrom My Heart Weeps for Days Long Past (1889?)

Who is she, in this manor of dreams,With windows barely opened,Who is she, at the edge of the green plains,At the horizons of illusion,Who is she, in this manor, that LadyWho reigns upon the throne of darkness?

What are these grey, funereal walls,Searching themselves in the pondLike a criminal before his heart?Who is the frail-looking child?Who is the queen, spinning out her days,And who waits these many years?

What are these mystic soulsHidden within monastic halls,And who, beneath oriental lamps,With an indolent, languid mien,Weave pale, very pale linen,And for whom? For whom!

Gregoire Le Roy 167


Misèrefrom Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois

Depuis que le palais de mes songesEt de mes amours fut dévastéPar le peuple jaloux des mensonges,Je traîne ma pâle royauté.

Je suis l’étrange indigent de rêves,Ce mendiant d’anciens parfums,L’exilé des faméliques grèves,Qui prie aux routes des temps défunts.

Et vous, passantes en ma misère,Si mon amour vous implore, il mentCar mes mains pauvres sont en prièreD’un peu de souvenir seulement.. . . . . .

La Fiancée de l’Ombrefrom Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois

Quelle est, en ce manoir des songes,Aux fenêtres à peine ouvertes,Quelle est, au loin des plaines vertesEt de l’horizon des mensonges,Quelle est, en ce manoir, la DameQui règne au trône des ténèbres!

Quels sont ces murs gris et funèbresQui se regardent dans l’étang,Comme un coupable dans son âme?Quelle est la maladive enfant,Quelle est la reine qui s’y traîneEt qui, depuis des ans, attend?

Quelles sont ces âmes mystiquesQui, dans des salles monastiques,Sous des lampes orientales,D’un air indolent, alangui,Tissent des toiles pâles, pâles?

Et pour qui?



Dimmed Christmasesfrom My Heart Weeps for Days Long Past (1889)

It is the hour of my heart and evening, over the world,Has joined its hands of sleep, its shadowy hands;It is the hour when sweetly dreams the roundelayOf old women of legend and of mystic dwarfs.

Do you hear, over there, over there, in my thoughts,The grandmothers, as they recount fabulous tales?Like the mute passage of the spirits through the shadowsOr the silence of a wing as it brushes a branch?

I see, within the ancient houses of my soul,The little ones, late at night, before a roaring fire,As they listen, as if in dream, to a very old woman,And the wind that wanders the shadows, rhythmically and slow.

Those are the very old evenings in old thatched cottages,Those are old winters, which snow outside . . .And then, in the trembling gentleness of the lights,Gently, gently, o my heart, you fall asleep . . .

The old woman speaks far away and the story comes to an end,Far away, in a manor, like an end of day,While in a very vague corner, a spinning wheel dreams,Like the heart of a princess exiled from love,

O gentleness, o languor! This remembrance of thingsThat never were for us, but a memory!O days, barely lived, so plaintive and rose,And dead! so gentle in death that we wish to die!

Long ago, in our childhood, there was a prince or a princess,For whom we wept, sometimes, now and again, and how often rememberedWith love and regret! someone given over to sadness,Someone dearly loved, someone who has gone away!

Gregoire Le Roy 169


Les Noëls Éteintsfrom Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois

C’est l’heure de mon coeur et le soir, sur le monde,Joint ses mains de sommeil, ses ténébreuses mains;C’est l’heure, doucement, où se rêve la rondeDes vieilles de légende et des mystiques nains,

Entendez-vous là-bas, là-bas dans ma pensée,Les aïeules conter de fabuleux récits?Comme un silence d’aile et de branche froissée,Le passage muet, sur l’ombre, des esprits?

Je vois, dans les maisons anciennes de mon âme,La veille des petits devant le feu ronflant:Ils entendent, de rêve, une très vieille femmeEt le vent qui dans l’ombre erre rythmique et lent.

Ce sont de très vieux soirs dans de vieilles chaumières:Ce sont de vieux hivers qui neigent au dehors . . .Alors dans la douceur tremblante des lumières,Doucement, doucement, ô mon coeur, tu t’endors . . .

La vieille parle au loin et l’histoire s’achèveAu loin, dans un manoir, comme une fin de jour,Tandis que dans un coin très vague un rouet rêve,Comme un coeur de princesse exilé de l’amour,

O douceur, ô langueur! Ce souvenir de chosesQui ne furent jamais, pour nous, qu’un souvenir!O jours si peu vécus, si plaintifs et si roses!Et morts! si douces morts qu’on en voudrait mourir!

Jadis, dans notre enfance, un prince, une princesseQue nous pleurons parfois, et, combien rappeléD’amour et de regret! quelqu’un de la tristesse,Quelqu’un de bien aimé, quelqu’un s’en est allé!


Albert Mockel (1866–1945)

� Albert Mockel was a poet, musician, and literary critic. In 1886, hefounded La Wallonie, the Liège-based journal, which would make Bel-gium a center of European literary life. All of the great symbolist writers

contributed to La Wallonie during its seven years of publication, the time limitwhich Mockel had set at its inception. From the outset, La Wallonie was a nexus ofFranco-Belgian literary alliance, co-edited by the Belgians, Mockel and PierreOlin, and the French poet, Henri de Regnier. Mockel, himself, divided his timebetween Belgium and Paris, where he was an intimate of Mallarmé and his circle.In his theoretical writings, Mockel synthesized the thought of Mallarmé. As a lit-erary critic, Mockel devoted book-length studies to Mallarmé (1899), Van Lerber-ghe (1904), and Verhaeren (1917).

Mockel’s true prominence stems from his position as a nurturer and mid-wifeto the new literature in Belgium. His own early poetry, Chantefable, un peu naïve(published privately in Liège, 1891) and Clartés (Paris: Mercure de France, 1901),seems slight in comparison to the innovative works of his friends, Lerberghe andElskamp. As he emphasized in his theoretical writings, music was, for Mockel, themost significant of all the arts. The interludes and songs which he composed to ac-company the poetry are an interesting aspect of the early volumes, an attempt at aWagnerian “Gesamtkunstwerk,” a meshing of the arts as a totality. Mockel’s latevolume, La Flamme Immortelle (Bruxelles: La Renaissance de Livre, 1924) is an im-portant prolongation of the symbolist aesthetic during the 1920’s. In this collec-tion, an unnamed ‘he’ and ‘she’ engage in an inner dialogue, an exploration of thepsyche and the flesh, the secret rhythms of attraction, from alternating male andfemale perspectives. The poem is a sustained hymn to “the inexhaustable fountainof desire,” the wellsprings of creation.



Carmenfrom La Wallonie I (1886–87)

Do you recall? the ocean swelled its glisteningWaves, where emerald glimmers were gliding.Uncertain furrows phosphoresced in the darkness,Voice of the endless Dream, lightning of the giant Voices.

Child, your pallor grazed my savage love,—Lilies exhaling the perfume of promises to the skies—And with an iris reflection, with limpid caresses, Your gaze embraced my triumphant gaze.

. . .

And we wept, Carmen, we wept tears of fire,In the whisperer Night, with its vague shimmering;Impassable and sinister in the shifting heart of the waves,A shade arose, as slow as a farewell.

Then the prophetic shade, with mysterious voices,And the infinite, dreamy plaint of the wavesSpoke of the despair of Man and the sobbingOf a dead Illusion and its dazzling tears . . .

And in the whiteness snowing in the tide of phosphorus,We listened to the mysterious Voices.

To the DestroyerLa Wallonie I (1886–87)

Sphinx, fascinating specter of the deceptive vows,Broken skeleton with creaking vertebrae,Your merciless claw has gleamed in my darkness,Like a lightning of horror, writhing over the living.

I fear you, I despise you: my weakness begs you,Gaze of the Nights, phantom with phosphorescent eyes,Your hand, morbid hope of adolescents in tears,Pours a chill of silence upon the plangent pains.

Albert Mockel 173


Carmenfrom La Wallonie I (1886–87)

T’en souviens-tu? La mer enflait ses chatoyantesVagues où des lueurs smaragdines glissaient.Dans le noir, des sillons douteux phosphorescaient:Voix du Rêve éternel, éclair des Voix géantes.

Ta pâleur effleura mon fauve amour enfant,—Lys exhalant aux cieux le parfum des promesses—Et d’un reflet d’iris aux limpides caresses,Ton regard enlacait mon regard triomphant.

. . . .

Et nous avons pleuré, Carmen, des pleurs de feu.En la Nuit chuchotteuse aux luisarnements vagues,Impassible et sinistre au sein mouvant des vaguesUne ombre se dressa, lente comme un adieu.

Or l’ombre fatidique aux voix mystérieusesEt la plainte infinie et rêveuse des flotsDisaient le désespoir de l’Homme et les sanglotsD’une Illusion morte aux larmes radieuses. . . .

Et des blancheurs neigeant au phosphore des flotsNous avons écouté les Voix mystérieuses.

A La Faucheusefrom La Wallonie I (1886–1887)

Spectre fascinant, Sphinx,—oh les voeux décevants!Squelette disloqué dont craquent les vertébresComme un éclair d’horreur tordu sur les vivants.

Je te crains. Je te hais: mes faiblesses t’implorent.Regard des Nuits, fantôme aux yeux phosphorescents,Ta main, morbide espoir des pleurs adolescents,Verse un froid de silence aux douleurs qui plangorent.



My cowardly dread loathes you, Death, priestess of time.Your frenzy is a torrent, rolling in deep waves,To snatch Love from the entrails of all the worlds:And Death, you laugh out, in mourning, your piercing screams.

I beseech you, o Queen with the vampire’s kiss,Close your arms and your void to one of my verses,So that hope, with her wings toward the gigantic Future,May throb in the eternal suffering of the work.

Intoxicationfrom The Immortal Flame (1924)

He:

Immobile evening, where a murmur of aspens dies;Evening, heavy with all the stormy weight of a long day.The air stifles a beating of wings; the sky trembles,And the ground, strengthless, has fainted with love.

In this hour which languishes, thirsting, I leanOver your grace, mirrored in the light of memory,Where you glide, shiver of shoulder, lightning of hip,Nude, in the inexhaustible fountain of desire.

But now awakens, troubling, intoxicating me,Your perfume, where survives the suave secret of a kiss.And, barely wandering in the sleep of a breeze, it isA breath that succumbs but does not wish to be exhausted,A soul that is stirred, a flesh that breaks to pieces . . .

Albert Mockel 175


Mon lâche effroi te hait, Mort, prêtresse du Temps.Ta fureur est un flux roulant vagues profondesPour arracher l’Amour aux entrailles des mondes:Et tu ris dans le deuil, Mort, tes cris éclatants. . . .

Je te supplie, ô Toi. Reine au baiser de pieuvre,Ferme à l’un de mes vers tes bras et ton néant,Pour qu’un espoir ailé vers l’Avenir géantPalpite en la souffrance éternelle de l’oeuvre.

Enivrementfrom La Flamme Immortelle (1924)

Lui.

Soir immobile où meurt un murmure de trembles;soir lourd de tout le poids orageux d’un long jour.L’air étouffe un battement d’ailes; le ciel tremble,et la terre sans force a défailli d’amour.

Dans l’heure qui languit, altéré je me penchesur ta grâce mirée au clair du souveniroù tu glisses, frisson d’épaule, éclair de hanche,nue en l’inexhaustible source du désir.

Mais voici que s’éveille, et me trouble, et me griseton parfum où survit le secret du baiser.Et c’est, à peine errant au sommeil de la brise,un souffle qui succombe et ne veut s’épuiser,

une âme qui s’émeut, une chair qui se brise . . .



The Preyfrom The Immortal Flame (1924)

She:

Cruel one! when you came to me,I was nothing but a sole cry of suffering and dread.

My heart rebelled, but I hardly wept,already submissive, a slave to bear all of the pains,when you came, unknotting my woolen tunics,to oppose your harshness to my vain starts.I screamed! and my flesh was nothing but a shrill laughter,and Hope was sobbing over the lost dream.

What am I in your hands? the shuddering preywhose cry of fear is the same as a cry of joy.When your force bends and subdues me, vanquished,I am the child who doubts, turns back, and will not;I push away and I press, with my knees and with my arms,desperately, with all of my convulsive fear,the approach of the burning mystery that kills me . . .And the current of fire carries me away from shore,As exiled Hope sings on the other bank.

. . .

Friend, when I come to youI admit, in a cry, my delirious emotion.What matters your stern brow and your foreign soul?I have shattered the altar of the god whom I awaited.As your mouth, my thirst, which nothing can quench,has drunk the voluptuousness of a deadly delight;and I surrender to your fire, renounced in vain,a love, wherein my ecstatic shame survives.

Albert Mockel 177


La Proiefrom La Flamme Immortelle (1924)

Elle:

«Cruel! lorsque tu vins à moi,je ne fus qu’un seul cri de souffrance et d’effroi.

Mon coeur se révoltait; mais je pleurais à peine,déjà soumise, esclave à subir tous les maux,quand tu vins, dénouant mes tuniques de laine,opposer ta rigueur à mes vains soubresauts.Je criais! et ma chair n’était qu’un rire aigu,—et l’Espoir sanglotait vers le songe perdu.

Que suis-je dans tes mains? la palpitante proiedont le cri d’épouvante égale un cri de joie.Quand ta force me courbe et me dompte, vaincue,je suis l’enfant qui doute, et se replie et ne veut pas;je repousse et j’étreins, de mes genoux et de mes bras,éperdument, de toute ma peur convulsive,l’approche du brûlant mystère qui me tue . . .Et le courant de feu m’emporte à la dérive.Et l’Espoir exilé chante sur l’autre rive.

. . .

Ami, lorsque je viens à toi,je t’avoue en un cri mon délirant émoi.Qu’importent ton front dur et ton âme étrangère?Le dieu que j’attendais, j’en ai brisé l’autel.A ta bouche, ma soif que rien ne désaltèrea bu les voluptés d’un délice mortel;et je livre à ta fougue, en vain répudiée;un amour où survit ma honte extasiée.»


Marcel Wyseur (1886–1950)

� A poet of Bruges, Marcel Wyseur is a neglected Belgian Symbolist, abridge-figure between the oneiric literature of the turn of the centuryand the explosive oneiricism of his friend, Michel de Ghelderode. In

Coup d’Ailes (Gand: Siffer, 1909), Les Cloches de la Flandre (Paris: Perrin, 1918), andLa Flandre Rouge (Paris: Perrin, 1916), Wyseur gave consummate expression toRodenbach’s dead city theme. With the depredations of the First World War, thetheme gains urgency in La Flandre Rouge, no longer the literary evanescence of cit-ies of the past, but their actual disappearance, evoked in imagery of melancholyresignation. “The Chapel in the Dunes” hinges on a gentle personification, as thelast chapel “gazes into the distance and her eyes of affliction / Have lost sight ofthe steeples, whose sister she once was.” Wyseur’s “The Spinners” is a dream-likealternation of images culled from the pure surroundings of a lace-maker and omi-nous interjections of the spinning fates. The suavity of the Flemish provincialworld and the forces of destruction which threaten it are the recurrent modalitiesof Wyseur’s poetry. In his preface to La Flandre Rouge, Verhaeren praised the poet:“Your strophes move or stand still, drag or fly. They have a soul independent of thewords which they enclose.” Verhaeren saw Wyseur as the poet who expresses theessence of his native land: “You carry Flanders within you. It is in your eyes thatsee, in your ears that hear, and in your fingers that write.”



The Spinnersfrom The Red Flanders (1916)

Three Spinners: Death, Pain, and Oblivion,Wind off infinity, at the black spinning wheel of time . . .

In front of a window with muslin curtains,Which frame a cool view of white geraniums,An elderly lace-maker and all her singing bobbinsCollaborate at perfecting a delicate lace.


Outside, it is a peaceful evening, with bronze-toned shadows,And the comfortable languor of sweet-scented jasmine,And the deep velvets, which fall palpitatingFrom the sky, like a brocade, edged with gold and ermine.


But the lace-work is long and the bobbins docileFrom having so often made their way across the webs,And now their eyes are tired as well . . .

In the closed room, where the light grows dim,Invisible sleep has touched their eyelids . . .But tomorrow, the bobbins will not awaken.

Three Spinners: Death, Pain, and Oblivion,Have taken flight this evening . . . The shroud is finished.

The Chapel in the Dunesfrom The Red Flanders (1916)

Over there, in the dunes, at the edge of the horizonThat delays the realm of Flanders and renders profoundIts Dream, a chapel, in a rose and white mantle,Sleeps like a sea-bird on the sand.

Marcel Wyseur 181


Les Fileusesfrom La Flandre Rouge

Trois fileuses: la Mort, la Douleur et l’Oubli,Au rouet noir du temps dévident l’infini . . .

Devant une fenêtre à rideaux d’étamine,Qu’encadre un frais décor de géraniums blancs,La vieille dentelière et ses fuseaux chantantsTravaillent à parfaire une dentelle fine.

Trois fileuses: la Mort, la Douleur et l’Oubli,Au rouet noir du temps dévident l’infini . . .

Dehors, c’est le soir calme et l’ombre purpurine,Et la bonne langueur des jasmins odorants,Et les velours profonds, qui tombent palpitantsDu ciel, comme un brocart frangé d’or et d’hermine.

Trois fileuses: la Mort, la Douleur et l’Oublie,Au rouet noir du temps dévident l’infini . . .

Mais la dentelle est longue, et les fuseaux dociles,D’avoir tant cheminé sur les trames subtiles,Et d’avoir tant usé leurs pauvres yeux, sont las . . .

Et dans la chambre close où s’éteint la lumière,Le sommeil invisible a touché leur paupière . . .Mais demain les fuseaux ne s’éveilleront pas.

Trois fileuses: la Mort, la Douleur et l’Oubli,Ce soir ont pris leur vol . . . Le linceul est fini.

La Chapelle dans Les Dunesfrom La Flandre Rouge

Dans les dunes, là-bas, au seuil de l’horizonQui recule la Flandre et qui fait plus profondLe Rêve, une chapelle, à mante blanche et rose,Comme un oiseau de mer sur le sable, repose.



She gazes into the distance and her eyes of afflictionHave lost sight of the steeples, whose sister she once was,For Nieuport and Caeskerke, Dixmude and Pervyse,Are dead and the cold has taken their grey ashes.

She is alone, most alone and solemn, infinitely,And the days are endless and endless is the wind,And endless the sobs of her vain distress . . .

But in the mourning of the choir, a droplet of blood,Lamp of the tabernacle and lamp of hope,Like Flanders and ourselves, persists, immensely.

Marcel Wyseur 183


Au loin elle regarde, et ses yeux de douleurN’ont plus vu les clochers dont elle était la soeur,Car Nieuport, et Caeskerke, et Dixmude, et Pervyse,Sont mortes, et le froid a pris leur cendre grise.

Elle est seule, très seule et grave, infiniment,Et les jours sont sans fin, et sans fin est le vent,Et sans fin les sanglots de sa vaine navrance . . .

Mais dans le deuil du choeur une goutte de sang,Lampe du tabernacle et lampe d’espéranceComme la Flandre et nous, s’obstine, immensément.


André Fontainas (1865–1948)

� André Fontainas was born in Belgium, but spent most of his childhoodand youth in Paris. During law studies in Brussels, Fontainas was activelyinvolved in the Belgian literary renaissance and figured prominently in

the 1887 Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique. After his return to Paris, Fontainas contin-ued to contribute to the Belgian literary journals, La Jeune Belgique, Le Reveil, andLa Wallonie.

The Franco-Belgian writer is the most hermetic and Mallarmean of the group.“The Virgins Look at Themselves in the Mirrors,” from the 1894 Nuitsd’Epiphanies, is a powerful and original avatar of the recurrent symbolist mirrorreverie. A group of imprisoned maidens is forced to witness the fleeting of life as itpasses in shadows across their mirror. “Already, this evening, strange visions /Slide pallid through the thick panes of our wJindows / And are dying in the goldof our mirrors.” In the manner of the prisoners of the platonic cave, the maidensperceive an intangible, phantom disembodiment, a dream of life, but not life itself.They are condemned to being seers, absorbed in unreal visions. The mirror is alsoa privileged symbol in Fontainas’ recondite sonnets from the 1895 Les Estuairesd’Ombre, stygian verse haunted by the lusterless waters of oblivion. The centralimage of Sonnet VI is a blackened mirror of obsidian and Sonnet VII is domi-nated by the mirror barren of dreams: “Lakes, where will not emerge toward fa-bled shores, / The grey and heavy plumage of the swans of December.” The darkexplorations of the Estuaires d’Ombre are succeeded in the later verse of the 1926Lumières Sensibles by a light-flooded world of ecstatic scintillation. In “Your Eyes,”the vision of love mirrors the joy of the beloved as she witnesses the “luminouslaughter of the hour,” “the brightness of blue waves and its flight of birds.” Therich and varied poetry of André Fontainas has been collected in Choix de Poèmes(Paris: Mercure de France; 1950).



Jealousyfrom La Jeune Belgique 4 (1885)

Seduction of eyes, charm of my youth,You wish to vanish in the thick cloudOf distant memories, which fly away in peace,Without hope of their former grace reviving.

Your rose and purple lip, arched with finesse,Derided the anguish you used to shroud me,While at your knees, I groveled, beggingThe only divine power acknowledged by my heart!

And your cold laughter burst out and my bodyKnew it was failing and my senses were deadUnder the weight of sorrow, weeping in my soul.

Nonetheless, fixed upon your laced corset, my eyesAvidly followed, seized by an infamous longing,The ray of furtive sunlight that broke into desire.

The Virgins Look at Themselves in the Mirrorsfrom Nights of Epiphanies (1894)

At our windows, at our mirrors,The sun is dying in last kisses of light,And the wide orb is inflaming the dark forest,The glade, over there, toward the City and the Sea.Already, this evening, strange visionsSlide pallid through the thick panes of our windowsAnd are dying in the gold of our mirrors.Riders galloping on horse-back,To what hour of fate? o Kings! and what hopesGuide you through the nights to our dim mirrors,Where the flashes of your helmets are dying?The hour has come, alas,In the nocturnal malice of the forests,Of quivering anguish and hidden ambush.In our windows, in our mirrors,O proud riders! your specters have passed,But toward the dark thickets, under ash trees, the beeches,

André Fontainas 187


Jalousiefrom La Jeune Belgique 4 (1885)

O volupté des yeux, charme de ma jeunesse,Tu veux te dissiper dans le nuage épaisDes souvenirs lointains qui s’envolent en paix,Sans que leur grâce antique un seul instant renaisse!

Ta lèvre pourpre-rose arquée avec finesseMe raillait des douleurs dont tu m’enveloppais,Tandis qu’à tes genoux, suppliant, je rampais,O seul pouvoir divin que mon coeur reconnaisse!

Et ton rire éclatait froidement; et mon corpsSe sentait défaillir et mes sens étaient mortsSous le poids du chagrin qui pleurait en mon âme,

Et, cependant, mes yeux, fixés sur ton corset,Suivaient avidement, pris d’une envie infâme,Le rayon de soleil furtif qui s’y glissait.

Les Vierges se Mirent dans les Miroirsfrom Nuits D’Epiphanies (1894)

A nos fenêtres, à nos miroirsLe soleil agonise en baisers de lumière,Et là-bas l’orbe large embrase la clairièreDe la forêt obscure vers la Ville et vers la Mer.Déjà d’étranges visions ce soirGlissent pâles aux vitraux lourds de nos fenêtresEt se meurent en l’or de nos miroirs.ChevauchéesVers quelle destinée? ô Rois! et quels espoirsVous guident par la nuit vers nos ternes miroirsOù les éclairs de vos cimiers se meurent?Hélas, c’est l’heure,En la méchanceté nocturne des forêts,De l’angoisse éperdue et d’embûches cachées.Dans nos fenêtres, dans nos miroirsO chevaucheurs hautains! vos spectres ont passé,Mais vers les halliers noirs sous les frênes, les hêtres,



And the oaks of the taciturn forests of evening;In vain, from our windows,Toward you, whom we had dreamt the Kings of our hope,We offered our hopeful gestures, only to the twilight;Phantoms of our mirrors,Phantoms, now, of the past,Our eyes have sought you in the gold of our mirrors,With the startled kisses of the restless light,As far as the reflected gleam of the glade,In the gold of our mirrors or of ancient windows.

The Estuaries of Shadows VIfrom Le Reveil 5 (1895)

Flowers, the hope of crosses, the gleam of red gold,Their vows, ancient flotilla in the breeze of sea-faring skies,Kneel at the threshold, where ascend, Pilgrims,With your voices, the bronze voices of the bell-towers.

The daily round of useless life,Souls of love, and by which serene miracles,Blossomed, in the sad field watered by your grief,Bright corollas, wreathing the peristyle.

The dark river of oblivion, where our cypress trees plunge,Turns the thick gravel of Dream and the RegretsBeneath the blackened mirror of its obsidian:

Forsake a vain dream and your senseless vows,Exiled stranger, become a herdsman in Sogdiane,Dreams are dangerous and to be alive is enough.



Les chênes des forêts taciturnes de soir,En vain de nos fenêtresVers vous que nous rêvions les Rois de notre espoirNous fîmes au crêpuscule un geste d’espoir.O fantômes de nos miroirsFantômes déjà du passéNos yeux vous ont guettés sous l’or de nos miroirsAux baisers apeurés des mouvantes lumièresJusqu’au rêve reflété de la clairièreDans l’or de nos miroirs ou d’antiques fenêtres.

Les Estuaires de l’Ombre VI from Le Reveil 5 (1895)

Fleurs, tout l’espoir des croix, et l’or roux y rutile,Leurs voeux, flottille ancienne au vent des cieux marinsS’agenouillent au seuil d’où montent, Pèlerins,Avec vos voix les voix d’airain d’un campanile.

L’ennui quotidien de la vie inutile,Ames d’amour, et par quels miracles sereins,Eclôt, du triste champ qu’arrosaient vos chagrins,Claires corolles en guirlande au péristyle.

Le fleuve d’oubli sombre où plongent nos cyprèsRoule l’épais gravier du Rêve et des RegretsSous le miroir noirci de son obsidiane:

Délaisse un songe vain et tes voeux insensés,Etranger qu’un exil fit pâtre en Sogdiane,Le rêve est malfaisant et vivre c’est assez.



The Estuaries of Shadows VIIIfrom Le Reveil 5 (1895)

I think of You. Sad shivers in the shadows. The amberShivers in the bare mirror of our cold dreams,Lakes, where will not emerge toward fabled shores,The grey and heavy plumage of the swans of December.

Secure the house of destiny, where the Other contortsThe evil sweetness of her ideal: those Whom she will wordlessly strangle for the blue mirages,Will never again be reborn on the cold walls of my chamber.

And You, for your heraldry was of ancient blue and gold,Were they not yours, the fingers that scattered the treasureOf their shining petals to the sea of lusterless water?

Night, which a lightning flash—You!—burns with suddenflowers,

What rivers of green oblivion have silenced among their own,Elated with perfumes, the voices of our hopes?

Your Eyesfrom Palpable Light (1926)

This morning, you said: “How beautiful is the sea!”Tender flutter of birds, which hover over the water,The luminous laughter of the hour sparklesWith the brightness of blue waves and its flight of birds.

A quivering wing in the immense skyClimbs, lengthens, thrills. The wavesSwell, with universal splendor, all ofSpace, enraptured beneath an unborn song.

I watch, in your eyes, the faithful ecstasyWhereby is born, in your voice, the azure, the birds;Your eyes repeat: “The sea is lovely!”And I answer with a smile that reflects in your eyes.



Les Estuaires de l’Ombre VIIIfrom Le Reveil 5 (1895)

Je songe à Toi. Frissons tristes dans l’ombre, l’ambreFrissonne au miroir nu de nos rêves frileux,Lacs d’où n’émergeront vers les bords fabuleuxLes lourds plumages gris des cygnes de décembre.

La maison du destin est sûre où l’Autre cambreLa mauvaise douceur de son idéal: euxQu’elle étrangla muets pour les mirages bleusNe pourront pas renaître aux murs froids de ma chambre.

Et Toi, car ton blason fut d’azur vieux et d’or,N’es-tu de qui les doigts ont semé le trésorDe leurs pétales clairs à la mer aux eaux mates?

Nuit qu’un éclair—c’est Toi!—brûle de brusques fleurs,Quels fleuves d’oubli vert ont tû parmi les leursLes voix de nos espoirs enivrés d’aromates?

Tes Yeuxfrom Lumière Sensible (1926)

Tu disais ce matin: «Que la mer est belle!»Tendre émoi d’oiseaux qui planent sur les eaux,Le rire lumineux de l’heure étincelleDe l’éclat de l’azur au vol des oiseaux.

Dans le ciel immense un frémissement d’aileMonte, se prolonge, palpite. Les eauxEmplissent d’une spendeur universelleL’espace pâmé sous quels chants inéclos.

J’observe dans tes yeux l’extase fidèleQui fait naître à ta voix l’azur, les oiseaux;Ils répetent, tes yeux: «Que la mer est belle»Et je réponds toujours: «Que tes yeux sont beaux!»


v Max Elskamp

Selections from:

Beneath the Tents of the ExodusSous les Tentes de l’Exode (1921)

The Song of the Rue Saint-PaulLa Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul(1922)

Aegri Somnia (1924)


Max Elskamp (1862–1932)

Commentary

�Like Georges Rodenbach, for whom Bruges was the space of poetry,Max Elskamp is also a poet of place. His realm of the imagination, ren-dered mythic and interiorized, was his birthplace, the port city of Ant-

werp. Elskamp spent his early years in the parish of St. Paul and most of his lifein his family’s vast mansion on Leopold Street, surrounded by the collections oforientalia and old navigational equipment which fueled his reverie. In his earlycollections, Enluminures and La Louange de la Vie, both published in 1898, Els-kamp evokes an Antwerp which is a series of villages, inhabited by simple folk.The language used in these poems is naive and archaic in mood, suffused withthe rhythms of folksongs. The seemingly simple style was intended to conveythe spiritual candor of the populace, living in a harmonious and natural world,rooted in the religious calendar. Ten years of silence followed these volumes,during which Elskamp collected Flemish folklore and engaged in study of Bud-dhism. Following a bitter period of exile in Holland during the First WorldWar, Elskamp underwent a remarkable resurgence of poetic creation. The years1920–1924 mark the appearance of successive volumes of symbolist poetry, Sousles tentes de l’exode (1921), La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul (1922), Les ChansonsDésabusées (1922), Les Délectations Moroses (1923), Maya (1923), and Aegri Somnia(1924). In these works, Elskamp, like the Verhaeren of the 1880’s, has fashioneda highly idiosyncratic French, rich in distorted syntax, ellipsis, neologisms, sup-pression of articles, and succinct lines meant to convey moments of vision. Thepurity of the legendary past gives way in the Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul to theteeming life of the present. The atmosphere of the port is the prevailing theme,but the ubiquity of the harbour also leads the poet to evoke distant and exoticrealms in a series of dream voyages. Spaces of suspended time are found at bothaxes of Elskamp’s imagination. The brothel in the seventh poem of the RueSaint-Paul is a place of waiting, dominated by a poster of the Brooklyn Bridgestretched in suspension. The “violet islands” found at the edge of the world inAegri Somnia are places where “so many pasts are worn away / In dark oblivionof everlasting presents.” Throughout Elskamp’s late period, scenes of Flemishlife alternate with evocations of beloved women, oriental fantasies, and poemsinspired by objects, porcelains and silks, which are “pieces of music for theeye.” The last ten years of Elskamp’s life were spent in syphilitic madness andparanoid rage.

Max Elskamp 195


The poetry of Max Elskamp:

Oeuvres Complètes (Paris: Seghers, 1967).La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul, ed. Paul Gorceix. (Bruxelles: Labor, 1987).Chansons et Enluminures. (Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1980).



In Memoriamfrom Beneath the Tents of the Exodus

In this land, in this land,My God, where we have wasted away,

My God, where we have endured pain,Torn even by the sky and the sea,

In this land, for us so drawn out,With dejected waiting and with renunciation,

From day to day, for seasons,And then for months and then for years;

In this land that received usFraught with bitterness and care,

Poisoned with loathing and with doubt,Feet so bloodstained from the roadways,

Burdened with mourning, dressed in tears,Eyes screwed tight, wounded by magic spell,

And a bitter mouth, deafened ears,Bursting heart and a soul weighted down;

In this land, for us so slowIn its welcome, both with face and accent,

Mauve and grey as an autumn,In a remote world, lost among men;

In this very foreign land,Where we never learned to love,Which by rule or mistrust,Our hearts turned into deep silences,

In this land, for us so cold,From the bread to the water that was ours,And for eyes and for hearing,Peevish and melancholy:

Max Elskamp 197


In Memoriamfrom Sous les Tentes de l’Exode

En ce pays, en ce pays,Mon Dieu, où nous avons langui,

Mon Dieu, où nous avons souffertMême du ciel et de la mer,

En ce pays qui nous fut longD’attente morne et d’abandon

Au jour le jour, dans des saisons,Et puis des mois, et puis des ans;

En ce pays qui nous a prisPleins d’amertume et de soucis,

Aigris de haines et de doutesEt pieds tout saignants de la route,

Chargés de deuil, vêtus de larmes,Yeux lovés comme sous un charme,

Et bouche amère, oreilles sourdes,Gros le coeur et l’âme si lourde;

En ce pays qui nous fut lentD’accueil, de visage et d’accent,

Et mauve et gris comme une automneAu monde loin parmi les hommes;

En ce pays très étrangerOù nous n’avons pas su aimer

Et qui, par règle ou défiance,Si tôt en nous s’est fait silence;

En ce pays qui nous fut froid,Du pain qu’on mange à l’eau qu’on boit,

Et pour les yeux, et pour l’ouïe,Morose et de mélancolie:



Wavering daylight, puritan sky,Our eyes have often seen you,

And voices of the water, lost in the air,You, our ears, so often heard!

In this land, too far into the ocean,Where our hearts never opened,

Where hard, and secret, and closed,We hated, more than loved,

In this land, breeding merchants,Where we never had a chance,

In this land of preachersTo whom we hardly listened,

In this land, alas, where we were,In this land where we lived,

Weary souls, undeceived,Bearing our thoughts like a cross;

My God, such dark days of life,My God, so much suffering withstood,

In this land, in this land,Where we languished in this way,

Sharing, even unto our flesh,Our wounds and our misery,

It was the world that changed,Paradise that we won:

We lived like brothers,Throughout the months of that war.

Max Elskamp 199


Jour indécis, ciel protestant.Nos yeux, l’aurez-vous vu souvent,

Et voix des eaux dans l’air perdues,Vous, nos oreilles, entendues!

En ce pays trop de la mer,Où nos coeurs ne se sont ouverts.

Où durs, et secrets, et fermés, Nous avons plus haï qu’aimé,

En ce pays trop de marchandsOù nous n’avons pas acheté,

En ce pays de prédicantsQue nous avons mal écoutés,

En ce pays, las! où nous fûmes,En ce pays où nous vécûmes,

Ames lasses, désabusées,Portant comme croix nos pensées;

Mon Dieu des jours noirs de la vie,Mon Dieu des souffrances subies,

En ce pays, en ce pays,Ainsi où nous avons langui,

Les partageant jusqu’à la chair,Nos blessures et nos misères,

C’est le monde qui a changé,Le paradis qu’on a gagné:

On a vécu comme des frèresPendant les mois de cette guerre.



no. 7Song of the Rue Saint-Paul

This street sets outTo find the docks,Holes, dens,Where the sailors go.

Houses with curtains,Lowered, but which move,Filtering a closed dayOf scarlet light.

All those English girlsPreoccupied with downing drinks,Readying themselves for love,With silken tights,

Throughout the day, which weighsOutside and so heavy,Throughout the summer night,Those who sell love.

And all the varieties of liquorTo choose, like the flesh,Danish aquavit,Bitter Greek anis,

Irish Whiskey,American rum,Japanese sake,Opium from India.

And mirrors reflecting,In yellow and black,All the shining copperBehind the counter.

Women and those who chat,Bared shoulder,Or who prefer to rest,Forever lounging,Rings on their hands,

Max Elskamp 201


no. 7from La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul

Puis rue qui s’en vaChercher les bassins,Bouges, galetas,Où vont les marins,

Maisons à rideauxBaissés mais qui bougent,Filtrant un jour closDe lumière rouge,

C’est filles anglaisesOccupées à boire,Vêtant pour aimerDes maillots de moire,

Dans le jour qui pèseDehors et si lourd,Dans le soir d’étéQui vendent l’amour.

Mais liqueurs au choixLors comme la chair,Aquavit danois,Anis grec amer,

Whiskey irlandais,Rhum américain,Saké japonais,Opium indien,

Et glaces mirantEn jaune et en noir,Les cuivres luisantsAu dos du comptoir,

Femmes et qui causent Les épaules nues,Ou bien se reposentEn long étendues,



Dreaming of bad or worse,Or finding all of their goodIn at last going to sleep,

For time stretches out,Told in slow hours,Days spent hereIn expectation.

Eyes, like theatrical lights,Scan the walls,And at the engravingsStand still.

You see Vesuvius,Overcome with fire,Like a vat full ofHell and Flame.

And red and carmine,Hanging further on,The Brooklyn Bridge,Suspended in the air.

Blue Nightfrom Aegri Somnia

The night is blue,The beloved is blond,There is God,And then the world,

And the gardenWhere you set outTo seek tomorrow,Which will come.

Max Elskamp 203


Bagues à leurs mains,Rêvant mal ou pire,Ou trouvant leur bienEnfin à dormir.

Lors temps qui s’espaceDit en heures lentes,Et jour qui se passeIci dans l’attente,

Yeux comme une rampeLes suivant les murs,Et sur des estampesQui s’arrêtent durs:

On voit le VésuveEn feu qui se pâme,Ainsi qu’une cuveD’enfer et de flammes,

Et rouge et carminPlus loin appendu,Le pont de BrooklynDans l’air suspendu.

Nuit Bleuefrom Aegri Somnia

La nuit est bleue,L’amie est blonde,Il y a Dieu,Et puis le monde,

Et le jardinOù l’on s’en va,Trouver demainEt qui viendra.



There is the heartYou carry within,Believing without delusionAll suffering to be dead.

The moon is round,Arcturus gleams,And the beloved is blondShe smiles,

You have no ideaAt what, at whom,But with joined hands,Just as in prayer.

And eyes climbingHigh, toward the heavens,Seek, you would say,Like wings.

Silence in her,Silence in yourself,And then faith,Which turns to gall,

Newborn doubtsOf love, which bindsForeverAnd for life,

And then there is, within the soulThat you carry within,Something like a womanWhom you know to be dead.

Max Elskamp 205


Il y a coeurEn soi qu’on porte,Croyant sans leurre,La douleur morte;

La lune est ronde,Arturus luit,Et l’amie blondeElle, sourit,

On ne sait pointA quoi, à qui,Mais jointes mainsAinsi qu’on prie,

Et yeux montésHaut vers le ciel,Cherche, on dirait,Comme des ailes.

Silence en elle,Silence en soi,Et alors foiQui se fait fiel,

Doute qui naît,Amour qui lieD’éternitéEt pour la vie,

C’est lors dans l’âmeEn soi qu’on porte,Comme une femmeQu’on saurait morte.



Silksfrom Aegri Somnia

A peacock in a Persian garden,A peacock fans its tail and women laugh

To see it, like a white sun,Change the grass to shining brightness,

Some, seated on a bench,In their veils the color of rain,

And others, their hair in the wind,In dresses that tell of saffron.

A stream is there, where the waterSeems, you would say, to turn to roses,

A bridge crosses, drolly,Lolling on spindly pilings,

And the sky laughs like a faun,Who knows at what or at whom,With great yellow sunspots,Like peelings from a fruit.

Then further, on a terrace,The green lords taking tea

From the back, profile, and full-face,All drinking with dignity,

Meanwhile, with fly-swats,Because of the month and the season,

Servants expedite the dubious spiders,Come to rest on the bowls.

But the suavity of silks,Which marry with the caressing fingers,

Just like a body, and sent fromThe radiant workshops of Isphahan,

Max Elskamp 207


Soieriesfrom Aegri Somnia

Un paon dans un jardin persan,Un paon roue, et des femmes rient,

De le voir, comme un soleil blanc,Dans l’herbe faire clarté luie,

Les unes sises sur un bancEn leurs voiles couleur de pluie,

Et les autres, cheveux au vent,En robes disant le safran.

Une rivière est là dont l’eauSemble, on dirait, ainsi que rose,

Un pont la traverse, falot,Sur des pilotis, qui repose,Et le ciel rit ainsi qu’un fauneOn ne sait pas de quoi, de qui,

Avec de grandes taches jaunesComme des pelures de fruit.

Or plus loin, sur une terrasse,Des Seigneurs verts prennent le thé

De dos, de profil ou de face,Et boivent avec gravité,

Tandis qu’avec des chasse-mouches,A cause du mois de l’année,

Des servants tuent araignes louches,Venues sur les bols se poser.

Mais douceur alors des soieriesQu’épousent les doigts les touchant,

Ainsi qu’une chair, et sortiesDes clairs ateliers d’Ispahan,



These are pieces of music for the eyes,And also velvet for the fingers,

And Persia recounted beneath the skiesBy a peacock as white as faith.

The Islandsfrom Aegri Somnia

Violet islands dream,Over there, at the edge of the blue world,Where the leaning schooners set forthWhite sails beneath the skies,

Toward the lost ports, confirmedIn perfumes of swooning flesh,In coral beneath the lightAnd distant greens of the palm groves.

Huts, raising their roofs of strawBeneath the golden rain of the sun,Sea-cucumber, copra, nacre, tortoiseshell,Goods of trade and vermilion,

Are sold and bought at eveningAfter the burning hours,In the presence of the sea, as it goes downLike blood along the shores,

Their breeze also passes sometimes,Fanning the lethargy of the sky,It is in glory of weary brightnessThat the daylight is fading, resplendent.

Then night, creating mute life,Over there, even near the breakers,Moon that climbs, full, clean,

Max Elskamp 209


Ce sont musiques pour les yeux,Et velours aussi pour les doigts,

Et Perse dite sous les cieux,Par un paon blanc comme la foi.

Les Ilesfrom Aegri Somnia

Des îles rêvent violettesLà-bas, au bout du monde bleu.Où s’en vont penchées les goélettesA voiles blanches sous les cieux,

Vers les ports perdus qui s’avèrentDans des senteurs de chair pâmée,En les coraux sous la lumièreEt vertes loin, des palmeraies.

Cases montant leurs toits de pailleSous la pluie dorée du soleil,Tripang, copra, nacres, écaille,Choses de trafic et vermeilles

Que l’on achète et que l’on vendDe soir, après les heures chaudes,Devant la mer et qui descendComme du sang le long des côtes,

Et brise alors parfois qui passeÉventant le ciel endormi,C’est en gloire de clartés lassesLe jour qui se meurt resplendi.

Mais nuit lors, qui fait vie muette,Là-bas, même autour des brisants,Lune qui monte pleine et nette



In the air, sweet-smelling with perfumes.Passing hour, so far from the world,Since time doesn’t matter any longer,And so many pasts are worn away

In dark oblivion of everlasting presents.Those are the violet islands,Over there, at the edge of the summer seas,Those are the violet islands,Dreaming of eternal days.

Salomefrom Aegri Somnia

It is in the evenings,Sometimes harsh,When, in theaters, You kill time,

And you leanTo see them betterPink or white,Blond or dark,

In the light,And their aromasOf flowers of fleshThose who dance

To the music,Quick or slow,With rhythmic step,And smiling,

Mimes, dancers,And ballerinas,Sweet, mocking,Or sometimes feline.

Max Elskamp 211


Dans l’air de parfums odorant,Heure au monde si loin qui passeQue plus il n’importe du temps,Et que c’est passés qui s’effacent

En l’oubli même du présent;Ce sont des îles violettes,Là-bas, au bout des mers d’été,Ce sont des îles violettes Qui rêvent là d’éternité.

Salomefrom Aegri Somnia

C’est dans les soirsParfois marâtres,Où, au théâtreOn va s’asseoir,

Et qu’on se penchePour mieux les voirRoses ou blanches,Blondes ou noires,

Dans la lumièreEt leurs fragrancesDe fleurs de chairCelles qui dansent,

Sur des musiquesVites ou lentes,A pas rythmiques,Et souriantes,

Mimes, danseuses,Et ballerines,Douces, railleuses,Ou bien félines.



When during the ballet,Whether long, whether short,Gracious, vivacious,And sometimes heavy,

Sudden thingsAnd those conjuredFrom distant times,Without question,

It is over there, distant,In Galilee,In the serene airWhen evening has fallen,

A palace of goldIn the sunset,Where horns sound,Where songs climb,

And then lances,Soldiers and guards,Banquet and dance,Where watches,

Darkly, Antiphas,With downcast eyes.But dancing there,Salome,

Lips offered,Arms uplifted,The breasts nudeAnd shadowed with gold,

While uponA silver dish,Following the whiteWall of the fortress,

A soldier approaches,With rigid fingers,Bearing in his handsThe head, once John.

Max Elskamp 213


Mais lors balletOu long, ou court,Gracieux, gai,Et parfois lourd,

Choses soudainEt qui s’évoquentDe temps lointainsSans équivoques,

C’est là-bas loinEn Galilée,En l’air sereinAu soir tombé.

Un palais d’orDans le couchant,Où sonnent cors,Où montent chants,

Et puis des lances,Soldats et gardes,Banquet et danseEt que regarde

Sombre, AntipasLes yeux baissés.Mais dansant làC’est Salomé

Lèvres tendues,Les bras dressés,Et les seins nusEt d’or ombrés,

Tandis que surUn plat d’argent,Le long du murBlanc du redan,

Un soldat vientEt les doigts raides,Portant aux mains,De Jean, la tête.


vi Charles Van Lerberghe

Selections from:

The Song of EveLa Chanson d’Eve1904


Charles Van Lerberghe (1861–1907)

Commentary

� Charles Van Lerberghe studied with Maurice Maeterlinck and GregoireLe Roy at the Jesuit College Sainte-Barbe in Ghent, the same schoolwhere Georges Rodenbach and Emile Verhaeren had been educated.

Under the tutelage of Rodenbach, Lerberghe made his literary debut with LaJeune Belgique, but soon became allied with La Wallonie, a journal more receptiveto symbolist innovations in versification. In 1889, Lerberghe completed a proto-Symbolist play, Les Flaireurs, which, like Maeterlinck’s more ominous L’Intruse, isconcerned with anguished waiting for death. It was, however, as a poet that Ler-berghe has made his mark with two collections, Entrevisions (1898) and a master-work of the Symbolist movement, La Chanson d’Eve (begun in 1899 and com-pleted in 1904).

La Chanson d’Eve is a collection in the truest sense, a system of associations,each poem linked to the others in a sustained and cyclical exploration of a poeticconsciousness awakening to the nascent world. Lerberghe’s Eve is a poet, the pri-mal poet like Rilke’s Orpheus or Valery’s Amphion, who conceives and sings theworld. In perfect solitude, Lerberghe’s virgin Eve pronounces her pure word asshe wanders a plurality of Edens, pastoral landscapes of the soul evoked in im-agery of dazzling light and mobile shadows. She is, at once, the Idealist Narcissus,identifying with all she encounters, and Psyche, engaged in a quest for knowledgeof self and universe. In her explorations, she is accompanied by her “radiant an-gels,” intermediaries between self and world, guiding her through experienceswith the elements. Water, identified with delving exploration of interiority, air,suggestive of freedom, dispersion, and mobility, and fire, element of flickeringmetamorphosis, are dominant sources of imagery. Several moods and registers ofexperience are recurrent. In one mood, there is a lulled harmony between paradisalnature and persona, as in “But one night Venus came to bring me roses.” Thepoems of this type are often associated with a gentle setting of dawn or twilightand with experiences of sleep, dream, and diffuse sensuality. In another mood,there is a dionysiac, triumphant identification of self and world: “Dove! Dove!Enchanted Dove!” or “Be absolved by my decree.” In poems of this type, Eve is anintoxicated dancer, reeling with power, a Nietzschean figure who asserts the forceof her will, her lack of guilt, and her creative drive. There is a third mood in thecollection, a fearful fascination with non-being: “I crossed the ardent thicket” or“Along the pale waters,” in which Lerberghe presents landscapes of arrested time,symbolist other worlds within the other world of Eden. Allied to this is a fourth

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mood in which Eve welcomes death as a form of self-forgetfulness and pantheisticreabsortion into the universe: “Come death, dust of stars . . .” Lerberghe’s poet-figuration awakens to the world, its joy, splendor, but also its inherent suffering.She is, at once, the enchanted, marveling at all she sees, and the enchantress, ren-dering her wonder in the incantation of verse. She establishes with her word abond between herself and the infinite and then disappears into her song.Lerberghe’s Eve merges with the world she has celebrated, as the poet merges intohis poem. Lerberghe’s collection is a hymn to the immortality of Song, the crea-tive act, and also a hymn to mutability, the poet’s ability to render reality malleableand fluid, metamorphosis as the essence of poetry.

The Poetry of Charles Van Lerberghe:

Entrevisions. (Bruxelles: Nouvelle Société d’Editions, 1926).La Chanson d’Eve. (Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1980).



“Gaze into our depths; we are the Emerald . . .”

Gaze into our depths; we are the Emerald,Everlasting and leafy, like the soul of the oceans,Where perfumes roam through the warm night,And flows the wave of the great angels of the wind.

We are the enormous and murmurous forest,Overflowing with dazzled shadows and somber splendor,Breathing and living, where a thousand golden birds sing,Where the peaks burst into a foam of flowers.

Ever since the original breath and the first dawn, With ceaseless striving and endless desire,Together we climb from the entrails of the earthToward that wondrous treasure which you alone have reached.

Together, we its voice, we its deep soul,Within this vast foliage, turned green ever more,We have dreamed all of the dreams on earthAnd have grown old on the shores of the sun.

“Place your pale diadem . . .”

Place your pale diademUpon my head, rayOf the pure moonlight.And leave your white veilOver my shoulders.

Then place your virginalWordUpon my lips.

And so, stay,Leave a trail between my frail fingers,Which I raise,A ray,Or the scepter of my kingdom.



“Regarde au fond de nous: nous sommes l’Emeraude . . .”

Regarde au fond de nous: nous sommes l’EmeraudeEternelle, et feuillue, et qui semble une mer,Où rôdent des parfums à travers la nuit chaude,Où circule le flot des grands anges de l’air.

Nous sommes la forêt énorme et murmurante,Pleine d’ombre éblouie et de sombre splendeur,Qui respire et qui vit, où mille oiseaux d’or chantent,Et dont la cime éclate en écumes de fleurs.

Depuis le premier souffle et l’aurore première,D’un effort inlassable et d’un désir sans fin,Ensemble, nous montons des antres de la terre,Vers ce but merveilleux que toi seule as atteint.

Ensemble, nous sa voix, nous son âme profonde,Dans ce feuillage immense, à jamais reverdi,Nous avons abrité tous les rêves du monde,Et c’est dans le soleil que nous avons grandi.

“Mets sur mon front . . .”

Mets sur mon frontTon pur diadème, ô rayonDe la lune pâle,Et ton blanc voileSur mes épaules.

Mets ta paroleVirginaleSur mes lèvres.

Et sois,Entre mes frêles doigtsQue je lève,O rayon,Le sceptre de mon royaume!



“My resonant angels came . . .”

My resonant angels cameAmong the roses of sunrise,

Like a peal of laughter in the airOr breezes over the waves.

I held fast, my hands clasped before them,And silently stood still.

They greeted me with the wind of their wings,And fell to my knees.

They said: Behold your handmaids,As their breaths brushed my body.

Their lips did not sing with the first light,Nothing but a kiss were their words.

My joyous angels cameIn the great, diaphanous morning,

Closing the world to my eyesWith a horizon of snow and flame.

And from my white feet to my golden headThey scattered me with flowers,

Tracing great waves,Bright spirals of splendor.

Then quivering, bewinged over me,In my entirety and all of them at once,

To the depth of their thirst-corrupted souls,Languorously, gently, like a shadow, drank me in.



“D’entre les roses de l’aurore . . .”

D’entre les roses de l’aurore,Elles sont venues, mes anges sonores.

Ils sont venus comme un rire dans l’air,Et comme des souffles sur la mer.

Je me tenais, mains jointes devant elles,Silencieuse, immobile et debout.

Ils m’ont saluée du vent de leurs ailes,Et sont tombés à mes genoux.

Elles m’ont dit: Voici tes servantes.Déjà leurs bouches m’effleuraient.

Leurs lèvres n’étaient pas de celles qui chantent;Leurs paroles n’étaient qu’un baiser.

Dans le grand matin diaphane,Ils sont venus, mes anges joyeux.

D’un horizon de neige et de flammeIls ont fermé le monde à mes yeux.

De mes pieds clairs à ma tête blondeToute par eux jonchée de fleurs,

Ils ont tracé de grandes ondes,Et des spirales de splendeur.

Puis frémissants, ailés sur moi,M’ont tout entière et tous à la fois,

Au fond de leurs âmes altérées,Longuement, doucement, comme une ombre, aspirée.



“Do you still remember . . .”

Do you still remember,O my unicorn,A wondrous night,Deep in the great woods,It was I who took you;I was as wild as you.

Without an arrow, without a dart,With a single glanceOf my child’s eyes,I subdued you;And you came, meek as a fawn,To stretch out in the grass,At my white feet,Like my shadow.Only a virgin could take you.

And now you repose,O my unicorn,In this little garden,By my own hands enclosedWith a hedge of roses,And all surrounded by boundless Eden.

And I fold my arms,Around your neck,My gentle beast, full of grace,And lean my head against your head,For fear my voice might wake you.

“But one night, Venus came to bring me roses . . .”

But one night, Venus came to bring me roses.It was in the grove, where I was yet asleep.She was nude and blond, sparkling, roseate,And all of the somber air around her was of gold.

In the warm night there was a sudden flight of doves.



“Le sais-tu encore, O ma Licorne?”

Le sais-tu encore,O ma Licorne?Une nuit merveilleuse,Au fond des grands bois,C’est moi qui t’ai prise;J’étais farouche comme toi.

Sans une flèche, sans un dard,D’un seul regardDe mes yeux d’enfant,Je t’ai soumise;Et tu vins, douce comme un faon,Dans l’herbe t’étendre,A mes pieds blancs,Comme mon ombre.Seule, une vierge pouvait te prendre.

A présent, tu reposes,O ma LicorneEn ce petit jardin,Que j’ai clos de mes mainsD’une haie de roses,Et qu’enveloppe l’Eden sans bornes.

Et j’enlace mes brasAutour de ton cou,Ma douce bête, pleine de grâce,Et pose ma tête contre ta tête,Pour que ma voix ne te trouble pas.

“Or, Vénus, une nuit, vint m’apporter des roses . . .”

Or, Vénus, une nuit, vint m’apporter des roses.C’était dans le bosquet où je dormais encor.Elle était nue, et blonde, étincelante et rose,Et tout l’air sombre autour d’elle était d’or.

Dans la nuit chaude il volait des colombes.



In unison, her lovely nymphs,—They wore purple girdlesBeneath their breasts andRoses in their hair—Caused under flying fingersTheir shining lyres to resound.

And one proclaimed: O Queen! look,She awakens, she laughs, surprised.She resembles you on the day you were bornOf the foam dancing on waves of the vernal seas.Look at her. Her dazzled eyes are unawareOf why you smile and why we have comeWith flowers, divine Venus, and with songs,From the depth of our night to salute her dawn;And yet, she is like the very image of Love.

And I said to her: Gracious Queen,How that name, of which my lips first learnedThe dazzling murmur,Suavely resounds in the silence.And like your presence, that wordHas perfumed the night!Before you, my angels reverently kneel.And I adore you and I seek in my heartWords that would be,Like your grace and beauty, divine.

But alas, our human soulsCan only tell their bliss,Their afflictions,In an exquisite murmur and in tears . . .

And all at once, in the sound of my voice,Through the air reeling with song and with roses,She, who with her breath quickens all things,Gently approached me . . .

And I felt upon my throbbing heart all on fireSomething like the alighting of lips.



Ses belles nymphes, à la fois,—Elles avaient des ceinturesDe pourpre sous les seins,Et des roses dans leurs chevelures,—

Firent, sous leurs agiles doigts,Résonner des lyres:

Et l’une dit: O reine! vois,Elle s’éveille, elle rit, étonnée.Elle est semblable à toi, au jour où tu es néeDe l’écume des eaux sur la mer du printemps.Comme toi elle est blonde, et ce n’est qu’une enfant.Regarde-la. Ses yeux émerveillés ignorentPourquoi tu lui souris et pourquoi nous venons,Vénus divine, avec des fleurs et des chansons,Du fond de notre nuit saluer son aurore;Et pourtant elle est comme une soeur de l’Amour.

Et je lui dis: O reine,Comme ce nom dont mes lèvres apprennentLe murmure ébloui,Suavement sonne dans le silence,Et comme ta présenceA parfumé la nuit!Devant toi mes anges s’inclinent.Et je t’adore, et je cherche en mon coeurDes paroles qui soient,Comme ta grâce et ta beauté, divines.

Mais, hélas! nos âmes humainesN’ont pour dire leurs bonheurs,Comme leurs peines,Qu’un murmure ineffable, et des pleurs. . . . .

Et, tout à coup, dans le son de ma voix,A travers l’air plein de chants et de roses,Celle qui, de son souffle, anime toutes choses,Doucement vint vers moi. . . . .

Et je sentis sur mon coeur embraséComme des lèvres se poser.



“Close now, magic ring . . .”

“Close now, magic ring,Close now, wall of lightNow as I sing,Fence of haze,Gate of moonlight,Close now and hold her tight.

Step by step; trace by trace,We now close tight this magic space.And may her angels never enter.”

In your palace I am locked away,What do you want of me, woodland sprites?For you did I not on the banks of the springGather vervain and the wild thyme?

“We are cold.”

Here is my breath, and here my fingers.Are you warm again?What more do you ask of me?

“Your soul,That little flame of gold.”

Here it is; I grant it freely,And take my heart as well.“We were chilled; you revived us,We were starving and you filled us,And you freely gave your soul.Would you have in returnRobes of shimmering hue,Bright wings, robes,Webs of azure and of moon?”

No, I would remain nude,Like the flowers and the angels.



“«Ferme-toi, cercle enchanté . . .”

«Ferme-toi, cercle enchanté.Ferme-toi, mur de clartéEnceinte de brume,Porte de lune,Ferme-toi, et garde-la.

Trace à trace, et pas à pas,Fermons l’espace,Et que ses anges n’entrent pas.»

Dans votre palaisJe suis enferméeQue me voulez-vous, petites fées?N’ai-je pour vous, près des fontaines,Cueilli la verveine et le serpolet?

«Nous avons froid.»

Voici mon souffle, voici mes doigts.Etes-vous réchauffées?Et que demandez-vous encore?

«Ton âme,Cette petite flamme d’or.»

La voici; je vous la donne,Et prenez mon coeur aussi.

«Nous avions froid, tu nous as réchauffées,Nous avions faim, tu nous as rassasiées,Et tu nous as donné ton âme.Veux-tu, en échange,Des robes couleur de l’arc-en-ciel,Comme des ailes, des robes tissuesD’azur et de lune?»

Non, je veux rester nue,Comme les fleurs, et comme les anges.



“We would give you, if you will,Treasures unknown stillHidden below groundIn caverns dire:The precious stones.Some shine in our hair,Like night mothsOf azure and of fire.”

No, I scorn those underground things.

“Would you have eyes that shine like the dawn,In darkness?”

No, I seek only that which flies away,In brightness.

“Would you be changed,Into a bird, a butterfly,Into a flame,Into a flower, a ray of light?”

Allow my soulTo be free as you are,Like the breeze, like fire,Which flares where it willAnd yields not even to God.

“It will be granted, your guileless desire,Your delightful desire;Daughter of mankind, be ever free,Even of God.

In the unseen,Our songs, our dances, ’round you will twine;Step by step; trace by trace,We will glide into the space,Where you will be.

Open now, gate of moonlight,Fence of haze,And magic ring,For now is reborn that odious light,Which already on earth, the rooster does sing.”



«Nous te donnerons, si tu veux,Les trésors futurs cachés sous la terre,En des grottes obscures:Ce sont les pierres.Il en brille dans nos cheveux,Comme des phalènesD’azur et de feu.»

Non, je dédaigne les choses souterraines.

«Veux-tu des yeux qui soient comme l’aubeDans l’obscurité?»

Non, je cherche ce qui se dérobeDans la clarté.

«Veux-tu que nous te changionsEn un oiseau, un papillon,En une flamme,En une fleur, en un rayon?»

Donnez à mon âmeD’être libre comme vous,Comme les airs, comme le feu,Qui souffle où il veut,Et n’obéit pas même à Dieu.

«Qu’il soit accompli le voeu ingénu,Le voeu adorable!Fille humaine, sois libre,Même de Dieu.

Dans l’invisible,Nos chants et nos danses vont te suivre.Trace à trace, et pas à pas,Nous serons dans l’espaceOù tu seras.

Ouvre-toi, porte de lune,Enceinte de brume,Cercle enchanté,Car voici que renaît l’odieuse lumière,Que déjà sur la terreLe coq a chanté.»



“The wave is shivering . . .”

The wave is shivering, a silken length ofMourning drapery, unwinding in the night,The deep wave, mute and black,Where the moon suddenly casts its shine.

The moon draws forth from the deepsLong frail flowers, so pale,That rise, unfurl, and hailThe cold orb of intangible splendor.

Mysteriously opened,Like a deadly omen,Upon the wave and the moon, they placeTheir white candlesticks, slender and pale.

And it seems to me from beyond life,Yet, close to my side,That some strange being is spying on me,Invisible in the light.

“The radiant fruit of gold shimmers . . .”

“The radiant fruit of goldShimmers, swaying in the shadows,Gleaming between the rustling leaves,A waiting treasure, long foretold.It has grown ripe only for you,Lovely and savoring of paradise,For what rose could rival its fairness?

Veiled by their wingsThe sleeping angels dream . . .



“L’onde tremble comme une moire de ténèbre”

L’onde tremble comme une moireDe ténèbre à travers la nuit,L’onde profonde, sourde et noire,Où tout à coup la lune luit.

Du fond des eaux la lune attireDe pâles, longues, frêles fleurs,Qui montent, s’ouvrent et se mirentDans son impalpable splendeur.

Mystérieusement écloses,Comme un mortel pressentiment,Dans l’onde et la lune elles posentLeurs longs et pâles flambeaux blancs.

Il semble, au delà de la vie,Et cependant à mon côté,Que quelque être étrange m’épie,Invisible dans la clarté.

“«Il luit dans l’ombre, le beau fruit . . .”

«Il luit dans l’ombre,Le beau fruit d’or,Il luit comme un trésorEntre ces feuilles.C’est pour toi qu’il a mûri,Le beau fruit du paradis.Quelles roses lui sont pareilles?

Voilés de leurs ailes,Les anges sommeillent . . .



And now the night has come,Not one star rises in the sky;Oh! nothingBut the lightest touchOf your lips . . .Who could see?The mild evening breezes caress it as well.

Hear as my songWhispers in your ear,Draw near and gather.The angels drift in their dreams . . .”

“Be absolved by my decree . . .”

Be absolved by my decreeOf all treacheryAnd of all malice,O my lovely Serpent, and glideIn peace, a sinuous sunbeamAmong these roses.

For it was you who taught me the truth,The original secrets of the earth,The mystery of all created things,O spirit of light,Bright spirit of fire!For it was you who made me an equal of God.

O my beautiful Serpent, glideAmong my lilies and roveThrough the roses of my springtime;Be crowned with bright gold and clothedWith emeralds, topaz, and with diamonds!



Voici que la nuit vient,Pas une étoile ne se lève.Oh! rienQu’un effleurementDe tes lèvres . . .Qui peut savoir?Le souffle du soir le touche bien.

Écoute ma chanson;Elle murmure à ton oreille:Approche et cueille.Les anges sommeillent . . .»

“Sois absous par ma bouche . . .”

Sois absous par ma boucheDe toute trahisonEt de toute malice,Mon beau Serpent, et glisseEn paix, comme un rayon,Parmi ces roses.

Tu m’as appris la belle vérité.

Tu m’as appris le secret de la terreEt l’énigme des choses,Esprit de lumière,Clair esprit de feu!Toi par qui je devins une égale de Dieu.

Glisse, ô mon beau Serpent,Parmi mes lys, et rôdeEntre les roses de mes printemps;Sois couronné d’or clair et vêtu d’émeraudes,De topazes et de diamants!



“Dove! Dove! Enchanted Dove, . . .”

Dove! Dove! Enchanted DoveThat sways around me,Why are you afraid, white dove?Hear my voice, dove, my sister.From the resonant branchesDescend in my dance,Descend upon my heart, dove of love!And I dance and I sing and I dance once more,I dance nude, dazzled and splendid,Like a serpent in the high grass.I dance and I rage in the air,Like a flame from hell.

I dance bewinged, quivering and wild,In the depth of the living whirlwind,Whirling in the current that devours me,The whirlwind in which I descend.I dance until sated,With soul drunken, staggering,With the wine of dance,And with the wine of my blood.

“But how to understand and how to name you . . .”

But how to understand and how to name you,O my ever-changing angels, transforming yourselves ceaselesslyYou, in whom there is nothing that remains,Immutable in itself, one entire day, one single hour?Emerged from some golden unity, strange and vague,You are born to perish and to flourish once againIn shapes more shifting than dreams.You, Breath, you bound forth and become a Sound,And you, Sound, a flame, and you, Flame, a dawn.And the air is laden with flowers that are not yet,But have already opened into a sky aglow with rays.



“Colombe! Colombe! Colombe enchantée . . .”

Colombe! Colombe! Colombe enchantéeQui te balances autour de moi,Pourquoi as-tu peur, colombe blanche?Écoute ma voix, colombe, ma soeur.Entre les branches descends dans ma danse,Descends sur mon coeur, colombe d’amour!

Et je danse et je chante, et danse encore.Je danse nue, éblouie et superbe,Comme un serpent dans les hautes herbes.Je danse et rampe dans les airs,Comme une flamme de l’enfer.

Je danse ailée, frémissante et sonore,Au fond du tourbillon vivant,Du tourbillon qui me dévore,Du tourbillon où je descends.Je danse jusqu’à ce que j’en sois lasse,L’âme enivrée et chancelanteDu vin de la danse,Et du vin de mon sang.

“Mais comment vous comprendre . . .”

Mais comment vous comprendre et comment vous nommerO mes Anges mouvants, vous, qui vous transformezSans cesse, vous, en qui il n’est rien qui demeureImmuable en soi-même, un jour, une seule heure?Sortis de quelque étrange et vague unité d’or,Vous naissez pour mourir et pour connaître encor,En apparences plus changeantes que des songes.Toi, Souffle, tu t’élances et deviens un Son,Et toi, Son, une flamme, et toi, Flamme, une aurore,Et l’air est plein de fleurs qui ne sont pas encore,Et déjà ne sont plus qu’un ciel plein de rayons.



“I crossed the ardent forest . . .”

I crossed the ardent forest where the foliage,Like a flame, bent to my step, Where the blaze then closed around me.No one. All is still. A wall of stone,A gaping doorway, a space that reveals The other land shimmering in another light.There nothing breathes. Lone, beneath the sun,An endless pathway of willows, which sweep theirTired branches along the sleep-laden sand.All things spellbound with a strange somnolence,Where light and shade, like the air, remain motionless.Evening is no more, beyond the threshold.Elsewhere, tolls the magic hour, when all is clothedIn blue twilight, that flows from starsUpon my sacred groves. Here, the relentless sun,Which beams forever an unwavering light.And yet, what calm delight reignsIn this radiant silence, this untouchedSolitude. Within this dwelling-place, nothing of life.No bird, in this stifling air,Could unfurl its weightless wings or let fallThe star of its agile claw upon the sand.Not a whisper floating on the gentle wind could passThe threshold where all expires.The mute flowers of paradise, even they,Clustered, must halt, stunned,For it is carved in the threshold of stone: Other Land.There, all noise dies out; even my voice trembles,Leaps back, frail, as soon as it touches the space.And over there, it is, my angels say,That Death invisibly wanders in this divine realm;And that is the way where life, obscurely, ventures forth.

. . . . . . . . . .

What does it matter! Here, they are so sweet, my quiet dreams.They look just like the ones that appear in the night,When all is at rest, when my joyous heart lifts meEven above Eden, and I amOn high, in the dark, miraculous sky, the pathwayOf the stars. All has grown heavy. I sleep.My feet are weighted in their own shining snow.



“J’ai traversé l’ardent buisson . . .”

J’ai traversé l’ardent buisson dont le feuillage,Comme une flamme, s’est ouvert sur mon passage,Et dont l’embrasement s’est refermé sur moi.Personne. Tout est calme. Une enceinte de pierre,Une porte béante, un espace où l’on voitUn autre monde luire en une autre lumière.Rien n’y respire plus. Seule, sous le soleil,Une allée infinie, et des saules qui laissentSur le sable dormant traîner leurs branches lasses.Toutes choses au fond d’un étrange sommeil,Et l’ombre et la clarté, comme l’air, immobiles.

Ainsi, le soir n’est plus au delà de ce seuil.Ailleurs, c’est l’heure merveilleuse où tout se voileDu crépuscule bleu qui tombe des étoilesSur mes bosquets heureux. Ici, le grand jour seulQui rayonne à jamais d’une lumière égale.Et pourtant quel divin et doux apaisementDans ce silence pur, et cette virginaleSolitude! En ces lieux plus rien qui soit vivant.Pas un oiseau qui dans cet air irrespirableAit ouvert ses ailes légères ou laisséL’étoile de ses pieds agiles sur le sable.Pas une haleine qui, dans la brise, ait passéCe seuil où tout expire, où jusqu’aux fleurs muettesDu paradis, en foule, interdites, s’arrêtent;Car il est inscrit sur ce seuil de pierre: Ailleurs.Là, tombent tous les bruits, là, ma voix même a peur,Et recule aussitôt qu’elle touche l’espace;Et c’est par là, disent mes anges, que la Mort,En ce divin royaume, invisiblement passe,Et par là que la vie, obscurément, en sort.

. . . . . . . . . .

Qu’importe! Ils sont si doux, ici, mes calmes rêves.Ils ressemblent à ceux qui viennent dans la nuit,Quand tout repose, quand mon coeur heureux m’élèveAu-dessus de l’Eden lui-même, et que je suis,Là-haut, dans le ciel sombre et merveilleux, la senteDes étoiles: Tout s’est appesanti; je dors.Mes pieds s’enfoncent dans leur neige étincelante.



How alike they look, those two golden roads!Perhaps they are one and the same, but seenFrom the confines of sleep and of life.How I long to see myself from over there, standingPale and tired, leaning on this doorsill, encircledBy these flowers whose fragrance wreathes my dreams.How strange all things here must seem,Ever restless, in a ceaseless uproarOf foliage, wind, and waves! The dreadOf living is so strong, over there; so smilingThe hope of rejoining the luminous void!Or is it a mirage? Dare I stretch out my hand? . . .

Oh God! The hand I draw back is cold and dead.It gleams like a rose of frost,For having just for a moment, near that door,Brushed the pale air and that unreal day! . . .What is it that sways over me, somethingAdrift, the shadow of a wing,Invisible above me, like an azure veil?Has something from the other land entered My soul? My eyes close, I stumble,I am tired, broken and I breathe in the drowsinessOf those dying roses, weary with sun,Whose fragrance but faintly rises toward me.How faraway is the very earth! . . .Where has it gone, the blue dance of the butterflies,Two of them, just now, on the threshold at play?Not a cloud in the sky that does not disappearIn the serene clearness, the second it drifts past.My heart grows calm as well; all grows calm.I draw close. I approach the Unknown that luresAnd entwines me with caresses, with chainsOf flowers . . . That word which I feared to say,I have said. It sings out. Listen. Did youHear it clearly? Then gently take my hand.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



Comme elles se ressemblent ces deux routes d’or!Peut-être est-ce une seule et la même, mais vueDes confins du sommeil et de ceux de la vie.Que je voudrais de là m’apercevoir debout,Pâle et lasse, accoudée à cette porte, sousCes fleurs dont les parfums enveloppent mes songes.Que les choses ici doivent sembler étranges,Sans trêve et sans repos, et dans quelle rumeurDe feuillages, de vents et de vagues! L’horreurDe vivre est si profonde, là; si sourianteLa joie d’être rentré dans le néant divin!Ou n’est-ce qu’un mirage? Étendrais-je la main? . . .O Dieu! Ma main que j’en retire est froide et morte,Elle scintille comme une rose de gel,Rien que d’avoir, un seul instant, sous cette porte,Effleuré cet air pâle et ce jour irréel! . . .Qu’est-ce donc qui s’étend, comme l’ombre d’une aileInvisible sur moi, comme un voile azuré?Quelque chose de l’autre monde est-il entréDans mon âme? Mes yeux se ferment, je chancelle.

Je suis si lasse et si brisée, et j’ai sommeilDe ces mourantes roses lasses de soleil,Dont les parfums vers moi ne montent plus qu’à peine.Comme toute la terre elle-même est lointaine! . . .Où donc s’en sont allés ces deux papillons bleusQui, tout à l’heure, sur ce seuil, jouaient tous deux?Il n’est pas un nuage au ciel qui ne s’effaceDans la sérénité divine dès qu’il passe.Mon coeur s’apaise aussi, tout s’apaise. Je viens.Je m’approche et je viens, Inconnu, qui m’attiresEt m’enlaces avec ces caresses, ces liensDe fleurs . . . Cette parole que je n’osais dire,Je l’ai dite. Elle chante. Écoute. L’as-tu bienEntendue? Alors, prends-moi doucement la main.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



“O God, who could be there . . .”

O God, who could be thereIn the absence beyondThis door?Who has risen beforeMe, from dead dustAnd the void?

Oh, speak fast!Don’t stare at me like that,In silence! I am afraid;Don’t stare at me with such eager eyes,My somber sister!

Are you my soul?Are you my shade?Whoever you are,Go away, ghost!I don’t want to see you anymore . . .Oh, my very own angels, help me!

“Through the happiness of twilight . . .”

Through the happiness of twilight,Who is it who sighs, what is the lament?Who has come to rest against my heart,Like a wounded bird?

Is it a plaint of the earth?Is it a future voice,A voice from the past?To the point of anguish, I hearThat sound in the silence.

Island of forgetfulness, o Paradise!What cry rends tonight,Your voice that cradles me?What cry piercesYour bright circlet of flowers,And tears your lovely veil of mirth?



“O Dieu qui donc est là . . .”

O Dieu qui donc est là,Dans le vide, au delàDe cette porte?Qui s’est levé, devantMoi, de la poussière morteEt du néant?

O parle vite!Ne me regarde pas de la sorte,En silence! J’ai peur;Ne fixe pas ainsi sur moi tes yeux avides,Ma sombre soeur!

Es-tu mon âme,Es-tu mon ombre?Qui que tu sois,Va-t’en, fantôme!Je ne veux plus te voir . . .O mes anges, à moi!

“Ce soir, à travers le bonheur . . .”

Ce soir, à travers le bonheur,Qui donc soupire, qu’est-ce qui pleure?Qu’est-ce qui vient palpiter sur mon coeur,Comme un oiseau blessé?

Est-ce une plainte de la terre,Est-ce une voix future,Une voix du passé?J’écoute, jusqu’à la souffrance,Ce son dans le silence.

Ile d’oubli, ô Paradis!Quel cri déchire, cette nuit,Ta voix qui me berce?Quel cri traverseTa ceinture de fleurs,Et ton beau voile d’allégresse?



“Along the pale waters, in these valleys . . .”

Along the pale waters, in these valleys,Silvered with moonlight and willows,In the blue twilight, two by two,A hand on a shoulder,Or alone,Slow shadows trail past:They are the souls.

Strangers to the earth, they come,—By which paths of deep nightAnd which heaths of asphodels?—Toward this star of Eden,For themThe other world.

Vainly, I beseech, while offering my arms:Are you happy?Not one of them answers.They do not understand.They pass silently,Wreathed in a pale smile;And from the heart of happiness, they sigh.

Neither the roses and their aromasNor these beautiful shores where growThe flower of the hyacinth and the flower of balmHave dispelled the vague fearAnd the bitterness of these souls;They suffered long ago.

They are the Shadows and their shadows delight them . . .Be gentle to them, O Light, touch them gently,Suavity divine, Chalice, where the sky rests,Which they approach only in trembling,And with closed eyelids.



“Au long des eaux pâles, dans ces vallées . . .”

Au long des eaux pâles, dans ces valléesDe lune et de saules argentées,Au bleu crépuscule, deux à deux,Une main sur l’épaule,Ou seules,De lentes Ombres se promènent:Ce sont les Ames.

Étrangères à la terre, elles viennent,—Par quelles voies de nuit profondeEt quelles landes d’asphodèles?—Vers cette étoile de l’Eden,Où c’est pour ellesL’autre monde.

En vain je demande en leur tendant les bras:Etes-vous heureuses?Pas une d’elles qui réponde.Elles ne comprennent pas.Elles passent silencieuses,En un pâle sourire;Au sein du bonheur elles soupirent.

Ni les roses et leurs aromes,Ni ces beaux rivages où croîtLa fleur de l’hyacinthe et la fleur du dictame,N’ont dissipé le vague effroiEt l’amertume de ces âmes;Elles ont souffert autre fois.

Ce sont des Ombres; et l’ombre les enchante . . .Sois-leur douce, ô Lumière, touche-les doucementSuavité divine, Coupe où le ciel repose,Dont elles n’approchent qu’en tremblant,Et les paupières closes.



“I say, teach me who you are, Azrael . . .”

I say, teach me who you are, Azrael,And the dark angel rose in the sky,Stretching his wide wings over me.

The earth shuddered beneath an unknown breath,The chalices of trembling flowers closed,And the world was suddenly blotted from my sight.

Yet, there were still things,As I heard the weightless crowdOf dark hours passing by.And, as if inside me, roses were growing.In the distance, spheres sang,Stars were living.

When there was something like a dawn,And I saw once again Azrael’s great wings,Which closed and descended from the skyWith all the immense night in them,

He smiled as his fleeting shadow,Like a bird, pursued its customary song,Or an enchanted wave, immobile on the shore,Suddenly beat like a wild swan.And I saw a sunbeam, arrested on my hand,Tremble and gently resume its course.

“O death, dust of stars . . .”

O death, dust of stars,Rise beneath my steps.

Like a flame, maddened with wind,Come, somber breath, where I waver.

Come, o sweet wave that shinesIn the darkness,Sweep me along inside your silent emptiness.



“Apprends-moi, dis-je, qui tu es, Azraël . . .”

Apprends-moi, dis-je, qui tu es, Azraël.Et l’ange sombre s’éleva dans le ciel,En étendant sur moi ses grandes ailes.

La terre frissonna sous un souffle inconnu,Les corolles des fleurs tremblantes se fermèrent,Et le monde soudain s’effaca de mes yeux.

Pourtant des choses étaient encore:J’entendais la foule légèreDes heures obscures qui passaient,Et, comme en moi, des roses qui croissaient.Au loin chantaient des sphères,Des étoiles vivaient.

Quand il se fit comme une aurore;Et’je revis les grandes ailes d’Azraël,Qui se fermaient et descendaient du ciel,Avec l’immense nuit en elles.

Il souriait à son ombre éphémère.Un oiseau poursuivait sa chanson coutumière.Une vague enchantée, immobile au rivage,Tout à coup s’abattit, comme un cygne sauvage.Et je vis un rayon arrêté sur ma main,Frémir, et doucement reprendre son chemin.

“O mort, poussière d’étoiles . . .”

O mort, poussière d’étoiles,Lève-toi sous mes pas!

Viens, souffle sombre où je vacille,Comme une flamme ivre de vent!

Viens, ô douce vague qui brillesDans les ténèbres;Emporte-moi dans ton néant!



It is in you that I wish to lie down,To extinguish and vanish,Death, longed for by my soul,Strong God, whom she awaitsWith songs and joyous sounds of love.

Come and break me like a flower of foamA flower of sunlight riding the crestOf the waves,Stripped by the night, blotted by the shadows,Blossomed by space.

And, as if from a golden amphora,A wine of flame and divine aroma,Pour out my soulInto your abyss, so it may embalmThe somber earth, the breath of the dead.



C’est en toi que je veux m’étendre,M’éteindre et me dissoudre,Mort, où mon âme aspire!Dieu fort qu’elle attendAvec des chants et des rires d’amour.

Viens, brise-moi comme une fleur d’écume,Une fleur de soleil à la cimeDes eaux,Que la nuit effeuille, que l’ombre efface,Et que l’espace épanouit.

Et comme d’une amphore d’orUn vin de flamme et d’arome divin,Épanche mon âmeEn ton abîme, pour qu’elle embaumeLa terre sombre et le souffle des morts.

BELGIAN FRANCOPHONE LIBRARY

Edited by Donald Flanell Friedman

As Belgium has become a center and focal point of the resurgent newEurope, the Belgian Francophone Library was founded at Peter LangPublishing, New York, as a special series devoted to the rich and variedliterature and cultural life of the French-speaking community in Belgium.The series will publish English translations of important works of BelgianLiterature, as well as critical studies, principally in French and English, ofBelgian literature, culture, and social history. It is the hope of series editor,Donald Flanell Friedman of Winthrop University, and the initialcontributors to the series to broaden knowledge of the specificity,fascination, and enduring artistic contribution of this crossroads country.

For additional information about this series or for the submission ofmanuscripts, please contact:

Peter Lang PublishingAcquisitions Department275 Seventh Avenue, 28th floorNew York, New York 10001

To order other books in this series, please contact our Customer ServiceDepartment at:

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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets -...

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