He lives in an old Italian palace where emblems and figures are written
on walls. He muses, passing from room to room. Towards evening he
descends the marble stairs and goes into gardens flagged like streams,
to dream of his life among fountain basins and ponds, while the black
swans grow alarmed in their nests, and a peacock, alone like a king,
seems to drink superbly the dying pride of a golden twilight. De
Régnier is a melancholy, sumptuous poet. The two words which most often
break forth in his verses are _or_ and _mort_ (gold and death) and
there are poems where the insistence of this royal and autumnal rhyme
returns and even induces fear. In the collection of his last works
we could doubtless count more than fifty verses ending thus: golden
birds, golden swans, golden basins, golden flowers, and dead lake,
dead day, dead dream, dead autumn. It is a very curious obsession and
symptomatic, not of a possible verbal poverty, rather the contrary,
but of a confessed liking for a particularly rich colour and of a
sad richness like that of a setting sun, a richness turning into the
darkness of night.
Words obtrude themselves upon him when he wants to paint his
impressions and the color of his dreams; words also obtrude themselves
upon whoever would define him, and first this one, already written
but inevitably recurring: richness. De Régnier is the rich poet _par
excellence_--rich in images. He has coffers full of them, caves full of
them, vaults full of them, and unendingly a file of slaves bring him
opulent baskets which he disdainfully empties on the dazzling steps
of his marble stairs, rainbow-hued cascades that go gushingly, then
peacefully to form pools and illuminated lakes. All are not new. To
the fittest and fairest metaphors that came before, Verhaeren prefers
those he himself creates, though awkward and formless. De Régnier does
not disdain metaphors that came before, but he refashions them and
converts them to his own use by modifying their setting, imposing new
proximities on them, meanings still unknown. If among these reworked
images some of virgin matter are found, the impression such poetry
gives will none the less be altogether original. In working thus, the
bizarre and the obscure are avoided; the reader is not rudely thrown
into a labyrinthine forest; he recovers his path, and his joy in
gathering new flowers is doubled by the joy of gathering familiar ones.
Le temps triste a fleuri ses heures en fleurs mortes,
L'An qui passe a jauni ses jours en feuilles sèches.
L'Aube pâle s'est vue à des eaux mornes
Et les faces du soir ont saigné sous les flèches
Du vent mystérieux qui rit et qui sanglote.
(Tr. 8)
Such a poetry certainly charms.
De Régnier in verse can tell everything he wishes, his subtlety is
infinite; he notes indefinable nuances of dreams, imperceptible
apparitions, fugitive decorations. A naked hand, slightly shriveled,
that leans upon a marble table; fruit that swings in the wind and
drops; an abandoned pool--such nothings suffice, and the poem springs
forth, perfect and pure. His verse is very evocative; in several
syllables he forces his vision on us.
Je sais de tristes eaux en qui meurent les soirs;
Des fleurs que nul n'y cueille y tombent une à une....
(Tr. 9)
Different again in this from Verhaeren, he is absolute master of his
language. Whether his poems are the result of long or brief labor,
they bear no mark of effort, and it is not without amazement, nor even
without admiration, that we follow the straight, noble progress of his
fair verses, white ambling nags harnessed in gold that sinks into the
glory of evenings.
Rich and fine, de Régnier's poetry is never purely lyrical; he encloses
an idea in the engarlanded circle of his metaphors, and no matter
how vague or general this idea may be, it suffices to strengthen the
necklace; the pearls are held by a thread, invisible sometime, but
always solid, as in these few verses:
L'Aube fut si pâle hier
Sur les doux prés et sur les prêles,
Qu'au matin clair
Un enfant vint parmi les herbes,
Penchant sur elles
Ses mains pures qui y cueillaient des asphodèles.
Midi fut lourd d'orage et morne de soleil
Au jardin mort de gloire en son sommeil
Léthargique de fleurs et d'arbres,
L'eau était dure à l'oeil comme du marbre,
Le marbre tiède et clair comme de l'eau,
Et l'enfant qui vint était beau,
Vêtu de pourpre et lauré d'or,
Et longtemps on voyait de tige en tige encor,
Une à une, saigner les pivoines leur sang
De pétales au passage du bel Enfant.
L'Enfant qui vint ce soir était nu,
Il cueillait des roses dans l'ombre,
Il sanglotait d'être venu,
Il reculait devant son ombre,
C'est en lui nu
Que mon Destin s'est reconnu.
(Tr. 10)
Simple episode of a longer poem, itself a fragment of a book, this
little triptych has several meanings and tells different things as one
leaves it in its place or isolates it; here, an image of a particular
destiny; there, a general image of life, while yet again, one may there
see an example of free verse truly perfect and shaped by a master.