SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS
123
OCTAVE MIRBEAU.
BRUTAL refinement of deep-seated vice
Carves the coarse features in a_ sentient
mould.
The gardens,! that were soft with flowers
and gold
And sickening with murder of lust to entice
The insane to filthier raptures, carrion spice
Of ordure for perfume, bloom there, fixed bold
By the calm of the Master, god-like to behold
The horror with firm chisel and glance of ice.
Ay! and the petty and the sordid soul,
A servile whore’s deformed debauchery,?
Grins from the image. Let posterity
From Rodin’s art guess Mirbeau’s heart, extol
The lethal chamber men ere then will find
For the pimp’s pen and the corrupted mind.
1 Le jardin des supplices, Octave
Mirbeau.
2 Les mémoires d'une femme de chambre,
par Octave Mirbeau,
par
SOCRATE.
(L>HOMME AU NEZ CASSE.)
CONSUMMATE beauty built of ugliness,
O broken-nose philosopher, is thine.
Diamonds are deepest in the blue-mud mine ;
So is the secret of thy strong success
Demonic-glittering through the wear and
stress
Of tortured feature ; virtue’s soul doth shine,
Genius and wisdom in the force divine
That fills thy face; magnificence ! no less.
Ay! thou shalt drink the hemlock; thou
shalt suffer
And die for self-respect, for love of others!
To-day are men indissolubly brothers?
Is my life smoother than the Greek’s or
rougher ?
The Greek at least shall stead me in my craft.
Crucify Crowley! Nay, my friends! the
draught.
COLOPHON.
INCIDENT.
(RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE, 182.)
SPELL-BOUND we Sat: the vivid violin
Wailed, pleaded, waited, triumphed. Kingly note
By note imperial from its passionate throat
Vibrates : the shadows fall like pauses in
The workshop of the Master: where there spin
Phrases in marble : fancies fall or float,
Passions exult, despairs abound, loves dote,
Thoughts gallop or abide: and prayer is sin.
Spell-bound we sat: one, young, eagerly moves.
One sits in thought: one listens, dreams, and loves.
One, critical, approves with conscious nod.
But I abode without the spell; saw these—
Diverse harmonics of identical keys !—
And these were thus: but Rodin heard like God,