[3] 'Les Heures où l'on crée' (_Les Forces Tumultueuses_). [4] 'L'En-Avant' (_Les Forces Tumultueuses_). [5] 'Le Verbe' (_La Multiple Splendeur_). [6] _Ibid._ (_Ibid._). THE NEW PATHOS Lassé des mots, lassé des livres. . . . . . . . . . Je cherche, en ma fierté, L'acte qui sauve et qui délivre. É.V., 'L'Action.' The primitive poem, that which came into being long before writing or print, was nothing but a modulated cry that was hardly language, a cry won from joy or pain, mourning or despair, recollection or passionate entreaty, but always from fulness of feeling. It was pathetic, because it was produced by passion; pathetic, because its intention was to produce passion. The poem of those great and distant men who were the first to find word and speech in the darted cry of feeling, was an invocation of the crowd; an exhortation; a fiery incitement; an ecstasy; a direct electric discharge of feeling to feeling. The poet spoke to the others, an individual to a circle. The auditors stood before him in expectation--somewhat as Max Klinger in his new picture has gathered them together in front of blind Homer--they waited, watched, listened, surrendered themselves, let themselves be carried away; or they resisted. That poem and the delivery of it were not something finished and presented for approval; no vessel or ornament already hammered into shape and perfectly chiselled; they were something in the process of creation, something newly growing at that moment, a struggle with the hearer, a wrestling with him for his passion.