Flight Into the World
On boit sa soif, on mange sa faim.—É.V., ‘L’Amour.’
In this crisis the negation was driven to the last possible limits. The sick man had denied not only the outer world, but himself as well. Nothing had remained but vexation, disgust, and torment.
La vie en lui ne se prouvait
Que par l’horreur qu’il en avait.1
He had arrived at the last possibility, at that possibility which means destruction or transformation. The at first purely physical pain of the supersensitive organs of the senses had become a moral depression; the depression had become psychic suffering; and this again had gradually turned in a grandiose progression not only to pain in the individual thing but to suffering in the all: to cosmic pain. For Him, however, who in His loneliness took the suffering of the whole world upon His shoulders, who was strong enough to bear it for all the centuries, humanity has invented the symbol of ‘God.’ He who is born of earth and lives to die must perforce break down under so gigantic a burden. Into the last corner of his ego revengeful life had here driven the man who denied it, had driven him to the point where now he stood shivering before the abyss in his own breast, face to face with death and madness. The physical and poetic organism of Verhaeren was overheated to the most dangerous and extreme degree. This fever-heat—that of a flagellant —had brought his blood to the boiling-point; it was filling the chamber of his breast with pictures of such overwhelming horror that the explosion of self-destruction could only be prevented by opening the valve.
There were only two means of flight from this destruction: flight into the past—or flight into a new world. Many, Verlaine for instance, had in such catastrophes, wherein the whole structure of their lives tumbled to the ground, fled into the cathedrals of Catholicism rather than stand in solitude under the threatening sky. Verhaeren, however, though an inspired faith is one of the most living sources of his poetical power, was more afraid of the past than of the Unknown. He freed himself from the immense pressure upon him by fleeing into the world. He who in his pride had conceived the whole process of the world as a personal affair, he who had tried to solve the eternal discord, the undying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ of life in his own lonely self, now rushes into the very midst of things and involves himself in their process. He who previously had felt everything only subjectively, only in isolation, now objectifies himself; he who previously had shut himself off from reality, now lets his veins pulse in harmony with the breathing organism of life. He relinquishes his attitude of pride; he surrenders himself; lavishes himself joyously on everything; exchanges the pride of being alone for the immense pleasure of being everywhere. He no longer looks at all things in himself, but at himself in all things. But the poet in him frees himself, quite in Goethe’s sense, by symbols. Verhaeren drives his superabundance out of himself into the whole world, just as Christ in the legend drove the devils out of the madman into the swine. The heat, the fever of his feeling—which, concentrated in his too narrow chest, were near bursting it—now animate with their fire the whole world around him, which of old had been to him congealed with ice. All the evil powers, which had slunk around him in the trappings of nightmares, he now transforms to shapes of life. He hammers away at them and shapes them anew; he is himself the smith of that noble poem of his, the smith of whom he says:
Dans son brasier, il a jeté
Les cris d’opiniâtreté,
La rage sourde et séculaire;
Dans son brasier d’or exalté,
Maître de soi, il a jeté
Révoltes, deuils, violences, colères,
Pour leur donner la trempe et la clarté
Du fer et de l’éclair.2
He objectifies his personality in the work of art, hammering out of the cold blocks, that weighed upon him with the weight of iron, monuments and statues of pain. All the feelings which of old weighed down upon him like dull fog, formless and prisoned in dream like nightmares, now become clear statues, symbols in stone of his soul’s experiences. The poet has torn his fear, his burning, moaning, horrible fear, out of himself, and poured it into his bell-ringer, who is consumed in his blazing belfry. He has turned the monotony of his days to music in his poem of the rain; his mad fight against the elements, which in the end break his strength, he has shaped into the image of the ferryman struggling against the current that shatters his oars one after the other. His cruel probing of his own pain he has visualised in the idea of his fishermen, who with their nets all in holes go on fishing up nothing but suffering on suffering out of the sombre stream; his evil and red lusts he has spiritualised in his Aventurier, in the adventurer who returns home from a far land to celebrate his wedding feast with his dead love. Here his feelings are shaped no longer in moods, in the fluid material of dreams, but in the infinitely mobile form of human beings. Here there is symbolism in the highest sense, in Goethe’s sense of liberation. For every feeling that has achieved artistic shape is as it were conjured away out of the breast. And thus the too heavy pressure slowly disappears from the poet’s being, and the morbid fever from his work. Now and now only does he recognise the suicidal cowardice behind the visor of the pride that forced him to fly from the world, now and now only does he understand that fatal egoism which had taken refuge beyond the pale of the world:
J’ai été lâche et je me suis enfui
Du monde, en mon orgueil futile,3
This confession is the last liberating word of the crisis.
Now his despair—a despair like that of Faust—is overcome. The mood of Easter morning begins to sound the exulting cry, ‘Earth has me again!’4 with the anthems of the resurrection. Verhaeren has described this deliverance, this ascent from illness to health, from the most despairing ‘no’ to the most exultant ‘yes,’ in many symbols, most beautifully in that magnificent poem wherein St. George the dragon-slayer bows down to him with his shining lance; and again in that other poem in which the four gentle sisters approach him and announce his deliverance:
L’une est le bleu pardon, l’autre la bonté blanche,
La troisième l’amour pensif, la dernière le don
D’être, même pour les méchants, le sacrifice.5
Goodness and love call to him now from where of old there were only hatred and despair. And in their approach already he feels the hope of recovery, the hope of a natural, artistic strength.
Et quand elles auront, dans ma maison,
Mis de l’ordre à mes torts, plié tous mes remords
Et refermé, sur mes péchés, toute cloison,
En leur pays d’or immobile, où le bonheur
Descend, sur des rives de fleurs entr’accordées,
Elles dresseront les hautes idées,
En sainte-table, pour mon cœur.6
This feeling of recovery grows more and more secure, more and more the mist parts before the approaching sun of health. Now the poet knows that he has been wandering in the dark galleries of mines, that he has been hammering a labyrinth through the hard rock of hatred instead of walking the same path as his fellow-men in the light. And at last, bright and exultant, high above the shy voices of hope and prayer, the sudden triumph of certainty rings out. For the first time Verhaeren finds the form of the poem of the future—the dithyramb. Where of old, confused and lonely, le carillon noir of pain sounded, now all the strings of the heart vibrate and sing.
Sonnez toutes mes voix d’espoir!
Sonnez en moi; sonnez, sous les rameaux,
En des routes claires et du soleil!7
And now the path proceeds in light ‘vers les claires métamorphoses.’8
This flight into the world was the great liberation. Not only has the body grown strong again and rejoices in the wandering and the way, but the soul too has become cheerful, the will has grown new wings that are stronger than the old, and the poet’s art is filled with a fresh blood red with life. The deliverance is perceptible even in Verhaeren’s verse, which with its delicate nerves reproduces all the phases of his soul. For his poetry, which at first in the indifference of its picturesque description preserved the cold form of the Alexandrine, and then, in the grim monotony of the crisis, tried to represent the void waste of feeling by a terrifying, gruesomely beautiful uniformity of rhythm, this poem of a sudden, as though out of a dream, starts into life, awakens like an animal from sleep, rears, prances, curvets; imitates all movements, threatens, exults, falls into ecstasy: in other words, all of a sudden, and independently of all influences and theories, he has won his way to the vers libre, free verse. Just as the poet no longer shuts the I world up in himself, but bestows himself on the world, the poem too no longer seeks to lock the world up obstinately in its four-cornered prison, but surrenders itself to every feeling, every rhythm, every melody; it adapts itself, distends; with its foaming voluptuous joy it can fold in its embrace the illimitable length and breadth of cities, can contract to pick up the loveliness of one fallen blossom, can imitate the thundering voice of the street, the hammering of machines, and the whispering of lovers in a garden of spring. The poem can now speak in all the languages of feeling, with all the voices of men; for the tortured, moaning cry of an individual has become the voice of the universe.
But together with this new delight the poet feels the debt which he has withheld from his age. He beholds the lost years in which he lived only for himself, for his own little feeling, instead of listening to the voice of his time. With a remarkable concordance of genius Verhaeren’s work here expresses what Dehmel—in the same year perhaps—fashioned with such grandeur in ‘The Mountain Psalm,’ the poem in which, looking down from the heights of solitude to the cities in their pall of smoke, he cries in ecstasy:
Was weinst du, Sturm?—Hinab, Erinnerungen!
dort pulst im Dunst der Weltstadt zitternd Herz!
Es grollt ein Schrei von Millionen Zungen
nach Glück und Frieden: Wurm, was will dein Schmerz!
Nicht sickert einsam mehr von Brust zu Brüsten,
wie einst die Sehnsucht, als ein stiller Quell;
heut stöhnt ein Volk nach Klarheit, wild und gell,
und du schwelgst noch in Wehmutslüsten?
Siehst du den Qualm mit dicken Fäusten drohn
dort überm Wald der Schlote und der Essen?
Auf deine Reinheitsträume fällt der Hohn
der Arbeit! fühl’s: sie ringt, von Schmutz zerfressen.
Du hast mit deiner Sehnsucht bloss gebuhlt,
in trüber Glut dich selber nur genossen;
schütte die Kraft aus, die dir zugeflossen,
und du wirst frei vom Druck der Schuld!9
Pour out the power that has flowed in upon thee! Surrender thyself! That too is Verhaeren’s ecstatic cry at this hour. Opposites touch. Supreme solitude is turned to supreme fellowship. The poet feels that self-surrender is more than self-preservation. All at once he sees behind him the frightful danger of this self-seeking pain.
Et tout à coup je m’apparais celui
Qui s’est, hors de soi-même, enfui
Vers le sauvage appel des forces unanimes.10
And he who in days gone by had fled from this appeal into cold solitude, now casts himself ecstatically into the arms of the world, with the I deepest yearning
De n’être plus qu’un tourbillon
Qui se disperse au vent mystérieux des choses.11
He feels that in order to live to the full all the greatness and beauty of this fiery world, he must multiply himself, be a thousandfold and ten thousandfold what he is. ‘Multiplie-toi!’ Be manifold. Surrender thyself! For the first time this cry bursts up like a flame. Be manifold!
Multiplie et livre-toi! Défais
Ton être en des millions d’êtres;
Et sens l’immensité filtrer et transparaître.12
Only from this brotherhood with all things accrue the possibilities of being a modern poet. Only by self-surrender to everything that is could Verhaeren attain to so grandiose a conception of contemporary manifestations, only thus could he become the poet of the democracy of cities, of industrialism, of science, the poet of Europe, the poet of our age. Only such a pantheistic feeling could create this intimate relationship between the world of self and the world surrounding self, the relationship which subsequently ends in an unparalleled identity: only so despairing a ‘no’ could be transformed to so enraptured a ‘yes,’ only one who had fled from the world could possess it with such passion.
Footnotes
1 ‘Un Soir’ (Au Bord de la Route).
2 ‘Le Forgeron’ (Les Villages Illusoires).
3 ‘Saint Georges’ (Les Apparus dans mes Chemins).
4 Goethe’s Faust, 1. 784.
5 ‘Les Saintes’ (Les Apparus dans mes Chemins).
6 ‘Les Saintes’ (Les Apparus dans mes Chemins).
7 ‘Saint Georges’ (Ibid).
8 ‘Le Forgeron’ (Les Villages Illusoires).
9 ‘Why weepest thou, O storm?—Down, memories! Yonder in the smoke pulses the great city’s trembling heart! A million grumbling tongues are crying for peace and happiness: worm, what would thy pain! Yearning no longer trickles lonely from breast to breasts, a quiet source and no more: to-day a nation groans, and with wild, shrill voices demands clearness—and thou still revellest in the joys of melancholy?
‘Seest thou the reek and smoke threatening yonder over the forest of flues and chimneys? Upon thy dreams of purity falls the scorn of labour! Feel it: labour is struggling, eaten up with dirt! Thou hast but wantoned with thy yearning, thou hast but enjoyed thyself in turbid heat; pour out the power that has flowed in upon thee, and thou shalt be free from the burden of guilt!’—‘Bergpsalm’ (Aber die Liebe).
10 ‘La Foule’ (Les Visages de la Vie).
11 ‘Celui du Savoir’ (Les Apparus dans mes Chemins).
12 ‘La Forêt’ (Les Visages de la Vie).