Je voudrais que ce vers fût un bibelot d'art, (Tr. 55) is the aesthetics of de Montesquiou, but the bauble is no more than an amusing fragile thing to be placed under a glass case or closet,--yes, preferably in a closet. Then, disburdened of all this grotto work, all this lacquer, all this delicate paste, and as he himself wittily says, all these "shelves of infusoria," the poet's museum would become an agreeable gallery, where one would pleasantly muse before the many metamorphoses of a soul anxious to give a new nuance-laden grace to beauty. With the half of the _Hortensias bleus_ one could make a book, still quite thick, which would be almost entirely composed of fine or proud or delicate poetry. The author of _Ancilla,_ of _Mortuis ignotis_, and of _Tables vives_ would appear what he truly is, excluding all travesty,--a good poet. Here is a part of the _Tables vives_, whose title is obscure, but whose verses have beautiful clarity, despite the too familiar sound of some too Parnassian rimes and some verbal incertitudes: ... Apprenez à l'enfant à prier les flots bleus, Car c'est le ciel d'en bas dont la nue est l'écume, Le reflet du soleil qui sur la mer s'allume Est plus doux à fixer pour nos yeux nébuleux. Apprenez à l'enfant à prier le ciel pur, C'est l'océan d'en haut dont la vague est nuage. L'ombre d'une tempête abondante en naufrage Pour nos coeurs est moins triste à suivre dans l'azur. Apprenez à l'enfant à prier toutes choses: L'abeille de l'esprit compose un miel de jour Sur les vivants _ave_ du rosaire des roses, Chapelet de parfums aux dizaines d'amour.... (Tr. 56) In short, de Montesquiou exists: blue hortensia, green rose or white peony, he is of those flowers one curiously gazes upon in a bed of flowers, whose name one asks and whose memory one cherishes. GUSTAVE KAHN Domaine De Fée, a Song of Songs recited by one lone voice, very charming and very amorous, in a Verlainian setting,--O eternal Verlaine! O bel avril épanoui, Qu'importe ta chanson franche, Tes lilas blancs, tes aubépines et l'or fleuri De ton soleil par les branches, Si loin de moi la bien-aimée Dans les brumes du nord est restée. (Tr. 57) That is the tone. It is very simple, very delicate, very pure and sometimes biblical: J'étais allé jusu'au fond du jardin, Quand dans la nuit une invisible main Me terrassa plus forte que moi-- Une voix me dit: C'est pour ta joie. (Tr. 58) _Dilectus meus descendit in hortum_ ... but here the poet, as chaste, is less sensual: The Orient has thrown a surplice over an Occidental soul, and if he still cultivates large white lilies in his enclosed garden, he has learned the pleasure of escaping, by secret paths known to fairies, "in the forest noiselessly laughing", as they gather bindweed, broom, Et les fleurettes aventurières le long des haies. (Tr. 59)