"Who, in the admiration of the young poets, will replace Verlaine, who had replaced Leconte de Lisle?" Few of those questioned answered. Two-thirds of those who abstained were influenced by the ridiculous appearance of such an ultimatum. How in short could it be that a young poet should admire, "exclusively and successively," three "masters" so different as those two and Mallarmé--incontestably chosen? Thus, many were silent because of scruples--but I now vote, saying: Greatly loving and admiring Stéphane Mallarmé, I do not see that Verlaine's death is a decent reason for loving and admiring him more today than yesterday. Nevertheless, since it is a strict duty ever to sacrifice the dead to the living and to give the living, by an increase of glory, an increase of energy, the result of the vote pleases me, and we, who were silent, would have been bound to speak. What a pity if too much abstention had perverted the truth! For, informed by a circular, the press in this item has found a motive the more for laughing and pitying us, as long as, riding on the inky waves of the sea of intellectual night, but subduer of shipwreckers, the name of Mallarmé, at last written on the ironic elegance of a racing cutter, sails and now defies the emptiness and the bitter-sweet foam of the hoax. ALBERT SAMAIN When they know by heart what is pure in Verlaine, the young women of today and tomorrow set out to dream _Au Jardin de l'Infante_. With all that he owes to the author of _Fêtes Galantes_ (he owes him less than one might suppose), Albert Samain is one of the most original and charming poets, the sweetest and most delicate of poets: En robe héliotrope, et sa pensée au doigts, Le rêve passe, la ceinture dénouée, Frôlant les âmes de sa traîne de nuée, Au rhytme éteint d'une musique d'autrefois.... (Tr. 19) One must read the whole little poem which commences thus: Dans la lente douceur d'un soir des derniers jours.... (Tr. 20) It is pure and beautiful as any poem in the French language, and its art has the simplicity of works deeply felt and long pondered over. Free verse, new poetry! Here are verses which make us understand the vanity of prosodists and the awkwardness of the too clever players on the zither. A soul is there. Samain's sincerity is wonderful. I think he would be ashamed to give variations on sensations unexplored by his experience. Sincerity here does not mean candor, nor simplicity gaucherie. He is sincere, not because he avows all his thoughts, but because he thinks of all his avowals. And he is simple because he has studied his art until he knows its last secrets and effortlessly gives forth these secrets with an unconscious mastery: Les roses du couchant s'effeuillent sur le fleuve; Et, dans l'émotion pâle du soir tombant, S'évoque un parc d'automne où rêve sur un banc Ma jeunesse déjà grave comme une veuve.... (Tr. 21)