But perhaps the most characteristic phase of Tailhade is in his pictures of the bourgeoisie. Here is one depicted with all Tailhadian serenity. Note also the opulence of his vocables.
Entre les sièges ou des garçons volontaires Entassent leurs chalants parmi les boulingrins, La famille Feyssard, avec des airs sereins, Discute longuement les tables solitaires.
La demoiselle a mis un chapeau rouge vif Dont s'honore le bon faiseur de sa commune, Et madame Feyssard, un peu hommasse et brune, Porte une robe loutre avec des reflets d'if.
Enfin ils sont assis! Or le père commande Des écrevisses, du potage au lait d'amande, Toutes choses dont il rêvait depuis longtemps.
Et, dans le ciel couleur de turquoises fanées, Il voit les songes bleus qu'en ses esprits flottant A fait naître l'ampleur des truites saumonées.
All through this introduction I am giving the sort of French poem least likely to have been worn smooth for us; I mean the kind of poem least represented in English. Landor and Swinburne have, I think, forestalled Tailhade's hellenic poems in our affections. There are also his ballades to be considered.
The bulk of Jammes' unsparable poetry is perhaps larger than that of any man still living in France. The three first books of poems, and "Le Triomphe de la Vie" containing "Existences," the more than "Spoon River" of France, must contain about six hundred pages worth reading. "Existences" can not be rendered in snippets. It is not a series of poems, but the canvass of a whole small town or half city, unique, inimitable and "to the life," full of verve. Only those who have read it and "L'Angelus de l'Aube," can appreciate the full tragedy of Jammes' débâcle. Paul Fort had what his friends boasted as "tone," and he has diluted himself with topicalities; in Jammes' case it is more charitable to suppose some organic malady, some definite softening of the brain, for he seems perfectly simple and naive in his débâcle. It may be, in both cases, that the organisms have broken beneath the strain of modern existence. But the artist has no business to break.
J'aime l'âne si doux marchant le long des houx. Il prend garde aux abeilles et bouge ses oreilles; et il porte les pauvres et des sacs remplis d'orge. Il va, près des fosses d'un petit pas cassé. Mon amie le croit bête parce qu'il est poète. Il réfléchit toujours, Ses yeux sont en velours. Jeune fille au doux cœur tu n'as pas sa douceur.