The only thing which now remains is to ascertain whether Paul Verlaine's
life-work, beginning in Metz and ending in a small lodging-house room
in Paris on a January day in 1896, contains the elements which we would
call "lasting" because we are afraid of the proud and resounding word
"eternal." The significance of great poets passes the boundaries of
literature and ignores what is known as "influences" and "artistic
atmosphere." The eternal element of great works of poetry reaches back
toward eternity. For humanity poetry is infinity which it joins with the
ether, and the great poets are those who were able to help in
elaborating the wonderful bond which stretches from the distant darkness
to the red of the new dawn.
It does not diminish Verlaine's stature if we do not count him among
the heroes of life. He was an isolated phenomena, too significant to be
typical and too weak to become eternal. There was beauty in his pure
humanness, but not of the kind which remains permanent. He has given
nothing which was not already in us. He was a fleeting stream of life
passing by; he was the sublime echo of the mysterious music which rises
within us on every contact of things, like the ring of glasses on a
cupboard under every footstep and impact.
His effect is deep, but yet on that account not great. To have become
great it would have been necessary for him to conquer the destiny which
he could not master and to liberate his will from the thousand little
vices and passions which enwrapped it. He is one of the writers who
could be spared, whom nevertheless no one would do without. He is a
marvel, beautiful and unnecessary, like a rare flower which gives
sweetness and wonderful peace to the senses, but which does not make us
noble, strong, brave and humble.
He was, and herein lies his greatness and power, the symbol of pure
humanity, splendid creative force in the weak vessel of his personality.
He was a poet who in his works became one with the poetry of life, the
sounds of the forest, the kiss of the wind, the rustling of the reeds
and the voice of the dusk of evening. Humanly he was like us who love
him. He was one of those who, no matter how great a chaos they have made
of their own life, are yet inappeasable, and drink the stranger's pain
and the stranger's bliss in the precious cup of glorious poetry. They
manifold their being and their emotions because of a blind and
uncreative yearning for the universal and infinity.