Comparative literature; Degeneration; Europe -- Intellectual life
To Gautier and his disciples the form is everything in poetry; the
substance has no importance. ‘A poet,’ says he,[254] ‘say what you
will, is a labourer; he ought not to have more intelligence than a
labourer, or know any other trade than his own, otherwise he will do
it badly. I hold the mania that there is for putting them on an ideal
pedestal is perfectly absurd; nothing is less ideal than a poet....
The poet is a keyboard [_clavecin_], and nothing more. Every idea
in passing lays its finger on a key; the key vibrates and gives its
note, that is all.’ In another place he says: ‘For the poet, words
have in themselves, and outside the sense they express, a beauty and
value of their own, like precious stones as yet uncut, and set in
bracelets, necklaces, or rings; they charm the connoisseur who looks
at them, and sorts them with his finger in the little bowl where they
are stored.’[255] Gustave Flaubert, another worshipper of words, takes
entirely this view of the subject when he exclaims:[256] ‘A beautiful
verse meaning nothing, is superior to a verse less beautiful meaning
something.’ By the words ‘beautiful’ and ‘less beautiful,’ Flaubert
here understands ‘names with triumphant syllables, sounding like the
blast of clarions,’ or ‘radiant words, words of light.’[257] Gautier
only credited Racine, for whom he, a romanticist, naturally had a
profound contempt, with one verse of any value:
‘La fille de Minos et de Pasiphae.’
The most instructive application of this theory is found in a piece of
poetry by Catulle Mendès, entitled _Récapitulation_, which begins as
follows:
‘Rose, Emmeline,
Margueridette,
Odette,
Alix, Aline.
‘Paule, Hippolyte,
Lucy, Lucile,
Cécile,
Daphné, Mélite.
‘Artémidore,
Myrrha, Myrrhine,
Périne,
Naïs, Eudore.’
Eleven stanzas of the same sort follow, which I will dispense with
reproducing, and then this final strophe:
‘Zulma, Zélie,
Régine, Reine,
Irène!...
Et j’en oublie.’[258]
‘And I forget the rest’--this is the only one of the sixty lines of
the piece which has any sense, the fifty-nine others being composed of
women’s names only.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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