Charles Baudelaire, His Life

strong, rude hemp, as in a cloth worked by Orientals, at the same time gorgeous and coarse, where the most delicate orn

ented boudoir and voluptuously languorous conversations, one falls into ignoble inns where drunka

one is able, after incalculable volumes of verse where every variety of subject seems to be exhausted, to bring to light somet

e has almost naturalised for us this singular and rare individuality, so pregnant, so exceptional, who at first rather scandalised than charmed America. Not that his work is in any way morally shocki

e loved poetry for itself and preferred beauty to utility-enormous heresy! Still, he had the good fortune to write well things that made the hair of fools in all countries stand on end. A grave director of a review or

liked, and on what subjects he pleased. His roving disposition made him roll like a comet out of its orbit from Baltimore to New York, from New York to Philadelphia, from Philadelphia to Boston or Richmond, without being able to settle anywhere. In his moments of e

f in a happy mood in regard to his work, or even to end an intolerable life in evading the scandal of a direct suicide. Briefly, one day, seized in the street by an attack of delirium tremens, he was carried to the hospital where he di

esteem of Baudelaire that we must speak of him in a more or less developed way, and give, if not an account of his life, at least of his doct

produce the effect of original work, and are almost perfect. "The Extraordinary Histories" are preceded by a piece of high criticism, in which the translator analyses the eccentric and novel talent of Poe, which France, with her utter heedlessness of the originalities

stic, deduced in algebraical formul?, and in which the expositions resem

admires Legrand, cleverer still at deciphering cryptograms than Claude Jacquet, employed by the Ministry, who read to Desmarets, in the history of the "13," the letter deciphered by Ferrango; and the result of this reading is the discovery of the treasures of Captain Kidd! Every one will confess that he would have had to be very clear-sighted to trace in the glimmer of the flame, in the red characters on yellow parchment, the death's-head, the kid, the lines and points, the cross, the tree and its branches, and

e nerves even of the most robust, and the "Fall o

almost spiritual beauty, that the poet named Morelia, Ligeia, Lady Rowena, Trevanion, de Tremaine, Lenore; but wh

ar Poe, and the memory of the one immediately awakes thoughts of the other. I

penetration and subtlety the nature of a great romantic painter. He thought deeply, and we find, in some reflections on Edgar Poe, this significant phrase: "Like our Delacroix, who has raised his art to the height of great poetry, Edgar Poe likes to place his subjects on violet and green backgrounds which reveal the phosphorescence and the fragrance of the

hich, however, never appeared. Nevertheless, to one of the later Salons, Fantin, in the odd frame where he united round the medallion of Eugène Delacroix, like the supernumeraries of an apotheosis, the painters, and writers known as realists, placed Baudelaire in a corner of it with his serious look and ironical smile. Certainly Baudelaire, as an admirer of Delacroix, had a right to be there. But did he intellectually and sympathetically make a part of this company, whose tendencies were not in accord with his aristocratic tastes and aspirations towards the beautiful? In him, as we have already said, the employment of tri

d it, and learnt how to find the end of the thread on the bobbin and so to unravel it. Thus he was familiar with Guys, a mysterious individual, who o

of an eye he seized upon the characteristic side of men and things; in a few strokes of the pencil he silhouetted them in his

things rapidly. In a flash of the eye, with an unequalled clear-sightedness, he disentangled from all the traits

accompanied by three footmen. He seems, in this style of drawing, fashionable and cursive, consecrated to the scenes of high life, to have been the precursor of the intelligent artists of "La Vie Parisienne," Marcelin, Hadol, Morin, Crafty. But, if Guys expressed, according to the principles of Brummel, dandyism and the allurements of the duckery, he excelled no less in portraying the venal nymphs of Piccadilly and the Argyle Rooms with their flash toilets and bold eyes. He was not afraid to occupy himself with the deserted lanes, and to sketch there, under the light of the moon or in the flickering glimmer of a gas-jet, a silhouette of one of the spectres

te absence of antiquity-that is to say, of classical tradition-and the deep sentiment of what we call "decadence," for lack of a word more expressive of our meaning. But we know what Baudelaire understood by "decadence." Did he not say somewhere, à propos of these literary distinctions:-"It seems to me that two women are presented to me; the one a rustic matron, rude in health and virtue, without allurement or worth; briefly,

to the Venus of Milo, a Parisienne élégante, delicate, coquettish, draped in cashmere, going furtively on foot to some rendezvous, her chantilly violet held to her nose, her head bent in such a way as to display, betwe

uch as could be satisfied by direct, and not traditional, representation of ugliness, or at least of contemporary triviality, his aspirations for Art, elegance, luxury, and beauty led him towards a superior sp

happy in spreading unfavourable reports of authors, that the writer of the "Flowers of Evil" was in the habit of seeking inspiration in these stimulants. His death, following upon a stroke of paralysis which made him powerless to express the thoug

recompense for resignation, virtue, and the persistent effort towards the good and the beautiful. He thought that the devil said to the eaters of hashish, the smokers of opium, as in the olden times to our first parents, "If you taste of the fruit you will be as the gods," and that he no more kept his word than he did to Adam and Eve; for, the next day, the god, tempted, weakened, enervated, descended lower than the beast and remained isolated in an immense space, having no other resource to escape himself than by recourse to his poison, the doses of which he gradually increases. That he once or twice tried hashish, as a psychological experience, is possible and even probable; but he did not make continuous use of it. This happiness, bought at the c

questioned with attention and amusing vivacity. People who knew him would guess that he was bound to be interested. The idea shocked him in spite of himself. Some one presented him with the dawamesk. He examined it, smelt it, and gave it back without touching it. The struggle between his al

hashish, he was sure, would have no action on his brain. That was possible. This powerful brain, in which will power was enthroned and fortified by study, saturated with the subtle aroma of moka, and never obscured by even a few bottles of the lightest of wine of Vouvray, would

aggerating it to the very last degree. What one sees is oneself, aggrandised, made sensitive, excited, immoderately outside time and space, at one time real but soon deformed, accentuated, enlarged, and in which each detail, with extreme intensity, becomes of supernatural importance. Yet all this is easily understandable to the hashish-eater, who divines the mysterious correspondence between the often incongruous images. If you hear a piece of music which seems as though performed by some celestial orc

pposite the dreamer with its mingled and transparently fantastic shadows. The nymphs, the goddesses, the gracious apparitions, burlesque or terrible, come o

tic scents of penetrating subtlety, recalling the memory of former lives, of balsamic and distant shores and primitive loves in some Tahiti of a dream. One does not have to s

private and hidden retreat which seems to await the beloved, the ideal feminine face that Chateaubriand, in his noble language, calls the "sylphide." In such circumstances, it is probable, and even almost certain, that the naturally agreeable sensations turn into ravishing blessings, ecstasies, ineffable pleasure, much superior to the coarse joys promised to the faithful in the paradise of Mahomet, too easily comparable to a seraglio. The green, red, and white houris coming out fr

tastically enormous weight, as though the sphinx of the pyramids, or the elephant of the king of Siam, had amused itself by flattening one out. At other times an icy cold is felt making th

om the ideas suggested by intoxication of hashish. Firstly, these ideas are not so beautiful as one imagines, their charm comes chiefly from the extreme excitement in which the subject is. Then hashish, which produces these ideas, destroys at the same time the power of using them, for it reduces to nothing the will and plunges its victims in an ennui in which the mind becomes incapable of any effort or work, and from which it cannot escape except through the medium of another dose. "La

spiration that he is obliged to invite the aid of the pharmacy or of sorcery; he has no need to sell his soul to pay for the

men, the band of helots, simulate the grimaces of enjoyment, and yell out if the bite of poison is taken away from them; and the saddened poet says: 'These unfortunate beings who have neither fasted nor prayed, and who have refused to work out their own redemption, demand from black magic the means of elevation, with a sudden stroke, to a supernatural existence. Magic dupes them and kindles

e that the author of the "Flowers of Evil," in spite of his

guish. De Quincey, incredible as it may seem, had, augmenting little by little each dose, come to taking eight thousand drops a day. This, however, did not prevent him from living till the age of seventy-five, for he only died in the month of December 1859, making the doctors, to whom, in a fit of humour, he had mockingly left his corpse as a subject for scientific experiment, wait a long time. This habit did not prevent him from publishing a crowd of literary and learned works in which nothing announced the fatal influence which he himself described as "the black idol." The dénouement of the boo

k to the guilty man the visions of his infancy, and hands washed pure from blood;-O just and righteous opium! that to the chancery of dreams summonest, for the triumphs of despairing innocence, false witnesses; and confoundest perjury; and dost reverse the sentences of unrighteous judges;-thou buildest upon the bosom of darkness, out of the fantastic imagery of the brain, cities and temp

ape from the tyrannies of his tutors, his miserable and starving life in the great desert of London, his sojourn in the lodgings turned into a garret by the negligence of the proprietor. We read of his liaison with a little half-idiot servant, Ann, a poor child, sad violet of the highways, innocent and virginal so far; his return in grace to his family and his becoming possessed of

ver of Paradise or Elysium succeeded others more sombre than E

ome great

om of earthqua

his ear like the blasts of trumpets, sounding triumphal fanfares, and when, in his dreams, multitudes of enemies struggled on a field of battle lighted with livid glimmerings, with the rattling of guns and heavy tramping, like the surge of distant waters, suddenly a mysterious voice would cry ou

p in his dreams, and would haunt them like obstinate sp

ugh to kill seven or eight unaccustomed people, but the yellow-skinned man was in the habit of taking it, for he went away with signs of great satisfaction and gratitude. He was not seen again, at least in the flesh, but he became one of the most assiduous frequenters of De Quincey's visions. The Malay of the saffron face and the strangely black eyes was a kind of genus of the extreme Orient who had the keys of India, Japan, China, and other countries of repute in a chimerical and impossible distance. As one obeys a guide whom one has not called, but whom one must follow by one of those fatalities that a dream admits of, De Quincey, in the steps of the Malay, plunged into regions of fabulous anti

o the ivory towers, to rivers full of junks crossed by bridges in the form of dragons, to streets encumbered with an innumerable population of bab

in the primitive ages, so there were three goddesses of sorrow; they are our Notre-Dame des Tristesses. The eldest of the three sisters is called Mater lacrymarum, or Our Lady of Tears; the second Mater suspiriorum, Our Lady of Sighs; the third and youngest, Mater tenebrarum, Our Lady of Darkness, the most redoubtable of all, and of whom the strongest cannot dream without a secret terror. These mournful spectres do not speak the language of mortals; they weep, they

who sought to attain the supernatural by material means; but, in regard to the beauty of the pictu

ularly profitable one for him. He worked little at Brussels, and his papers contain only sketchy notes, summaries almost hieroglyphical, which he alone could resolve. His health, instead of improving, was impaired, more deeply than he himself was aware, as the climate did not agree with him. The first symptoms manife

riends, he lived some months, unable to speak, unable to write, as paralysis had broken the connecting thread between thought and speech. Thought lived in him always-one could see that from the expression of his eyes; but it was a prisoner, and dumb, without any means of communication, in the du

ls and reviews, which soon became without interest for vulgar readers and forced the poet, in his noble obstinacy, which would allow of no concession, to take the series to a more enterprising

e "Petits poèmes en prose," Baudelaire relates how the idea of emplo

me, to you, and several of our friends-has it not the right to be called famous?) that the idea came to me to attempt something analogous and to apply to the desc

cal prose, without rhythm, without rhyme, supple enough and apt enough to adapt itself to

elf saw this after he commenced work, and he spoke of an accident, of which any other than he would have been proud,

to introduce infallible mathematics into his art. He blamed himself for producing anything but that

be thrown, before being employed, into scales more easy to weigh down than those of the "Peseurs d'or" of Quintin Metsys-for it is necessary to have the standard, the weights, and the balance-Baudelaire has shown a precious side of his delicate and bizarre talent. He has been able to approach the almost inexpressible and to render the fugitive nuances which float between sound and colour, and those thoughts which resemble arabesque motifs or themes of musical phrases. It is not only to the physical nature, but to the secret movements of the soul, to capricious melancholy, to nervous hallucinations that this form is aptly applied. The author of th

mpositions; pictures, medallions, bas-reliefs, statuettes, enamels, pastels, cameos which follow each other rather like the vertebrae in the spine of a serpent. One is

ans une chevelure," "L'Invitation au voyage," "La Belle Dorothée," "Une Mort héro?que," "Le Thyrse," Portraits de ma?tresses," "Le Désir de peindre," "Un Cheval de race" and especially "Les Bienfaits de la lune," an adorable poem in which the poet expresses, with magical illumination, what the English painter Millais has missed so completely in his "Eve of St. Agnes"-the descent of the nocturnal star with its phosphoric blue light, its grey of iridescent mother-of-pearl, its mist traversed by rays in which atoms of silver beat like moths. From the top of her stairway of clouds, the Moon leans down over

alter, in which the Empress of China draws, among the rays, on the stairway of jade made brilliant by the moon

ote which makes us listen attentively. This note is like a sigh from the supernatural world, like the voice of the invisible spirits which call us. Oberon just puts his hunting-horn to his mouth and the ma

choir of vanished ideas, murmuring in undertones among the phantoms of things apart from the realities of life. Other phrases, of a morbid tenderness, seem like music whispering consolation for unavowed sorrows and irremediable despair. But it is necessary to bewar

ILE GA

ry 20t

DES FLE

MS OF CHARLE

TO ENGL

UY T

IC P

um ex

Autumn in min

ncense from th

ll-sides tir

glory in th

! where eac

licate fruits,

maidens in a

ame, where all ar

ragrant breasts

ed harbour; an

ailors venture

y may to Tamar

umberous sea-cha

ices, and the

RDERER

de l'a

stiffened

an drink

tore my hea

so keen

's freedom

loud voic

tender bl

is clear

a summer

st I fel

g now! Such r

e stir a

r; but I co

ning l

hirst-far wo

ong-tortu

wine enou

tary, de

nd dark he

ed as i

member thi

no man

blocks of s

stones of

thousand oa

d we ca

reconcile

lived

ening on a d

mad thi

mad, this I

madness

, tired and

man with

far too mu

d her fr

e among m

our sod

drunkard u

part an

weave all ni

les throug

black enchan

le, and d

poison, dead

ible sal

iron-bound d

nor nothi

e. My wif

-drunk w

me night, a

ght to t

be, in a lo

ous an

ot with h

ing through

s and mud are

thing

of retrib

as is mo

o crack my

my bell

t who the

the de

e by side-ca

they nee

U

Musi

lead me fa

stical

my pale, hig

the my

leia

taut of swe

nt sail-cl

oom-gatherin

hord-shot c

he wave

and sombre

udgeon

rating timb

sionatel

rate

hy mighty

s and surf

agic mirror

their si

other

E

e

hairs old

ted eyebr

and metal

and withe

aisical t

themselves

ng gums and

white lip

table of

red hands

wn fever, v

purse o

low, stained

lamps, wh

foreheads o

ith thing

this ante-r

d the

things as

clairvo

cottier o

hing ma

cold, and

ches. I

se old har

oomy g

g passion o

erce a

en stake the

ed cha

t envy ma

his life-

undaunted p

enace can

othingness,

e lip o

FALS

uvais

old cloister w

rescoes showin

thus so holy

space forg

d Christ's seeds

imple, pious

inted phantom

r studio a b

is a sepulch

ciscan, dwel

low with pictu

ise from livin

rich materi

ds, with pleasu

EAL O

Idé

beauties in

simpering, sl

in a room

ing silly

varni all

harems, p

ies of th

wish to l

are the

pale and

s, I find

ilion or

r-women ho

rk wife, of

of ?schylu

thou shall qu

langelo's da

on her own

et mouth the

y ideal lo

OUL O

e du

he seals of

its walls,

hrough the eve

'st thee

d! outcast!

nd my song

hall enfold an

ng with

fierce ardou

ar hill-side

s have gone t

into

their pains

a! in full-

have helped

sionat

unnumbered

from chill c

oat of Labo

from th

efrains that

ing hope in

ee, dishevell

timat

y youthfulne

ee a son-th

k bright eyes,

ee thee

frail athle

red strength

hall be king-

inted w

ill bow me,

from the

I wedded,

its of

nd His feet

I made, i

thy slave a

ards like

INVO

ri

hee, Duke

s and lor

the Powers

; most d

long, remor

eries o

e near thee

the anci

, which shal

bub, a

es of stran

shall bu

E

Ch

y, lie alo

paw your t

secrets in

agate rimme

y languid

rippling ba

tingle w

ess so e

ace flashes

ysterious gl

strange mem

d flagellat

to foot a

er body's d

attends he

d dangerou

GH

Reve

ark angel's

gh the sha

ards thee,

us I sha

thou shalt

le moon-r

aresses of

the tren

e livid mor

ty by t

ld, thou'lt f

ntil e

g love to t

rness co

ll thy you

by terr

ANIES D

e and beautiful o

y destiny and b

on my lo

o hast been trodden

risest up aga

e pity on my

t all; Emperor

below t

human af

on my lo

e givest the ta

Outcast and thos

e pity on my

Death, thy stro

the sweet ma

on my lo

outlaws sereni

e people thronging

e pity on my

in what corners o

hath hidden the

on my lo

r eye knoweth t

uried metals

e pity on my

at hand hideth

abyss from those

on my lo

hantment makest

e dru

under the feet

e pity on my

each weak men an

ltpetre a

on my lo

of thought! who

of the merci

e pity on my

t the eyes and

ifles and the love

on my lo

exile, beacon of

ge ma

pirators and thos

e pity on my

n of those whom

nger from terre

on my lo

STAR

Guig

dreadful bur

courage, Si

ong is Art, and

illing, but t

mote churchyard

ereal marches

storied sepul

beating like

laming jewel

d oblivion,

toiling mattoc

ssoms secret

solitudes;

nemone her

a first-class English scholar, and whether he plagiarised or unconsciously remembered the most perfect stanza that Gray ever wr

gem of pure

thomed caves

ower is born t

sweetness on t

THE FLY-LEAF OF

pour un liv

mple, art

pages do

ly lurks

aturnine

m thee. If

t dark lea

Satan rule

would'st not

perturbed

n the heig

vision in

e and lear

hath suffe

aradise t

devil-ri

e ... or b

D OF T

de la

wan and si

dent and n

gless in al

s like a

far hori

t night, at l

nger, sooth

that the

nes seem o

wails alou

hronged with

down and ro

ack curtains

hath woven

POEMS I

AND TH

swoons beneath the Sun's burning eye,

, as sound does in human joy. The waning light casts a glamour over the world. The sun-kissed flowe

the lips of kings when weariness and remorse oppress them; a fool in a gaudy dress, coiffed in cap and bells

denied either love or friendship. Yet I, even I, am made for human sympathy and the ado

tares through the world wi

SIRE T

t happy the artist, to

ssing from my sight, as some beautiful, unforgettable object the tra

inspires is nocturnal and profound. Her eyes are two deep pools wherein mystery vaguely coils a

ho casts spells upon her-not the white moon, that cold bride of summer idylls, but the sinister, intoxicating moon which hangs in the leaden vault of storm, among the dr

urved and quivering nostrils breathe incense from unknown lands; a haunting smile lingers on

to woo and win. She makes me long to fall asle

HIS OWN

ain where no grass grew, where not a nettle or a thistle da

ra, heavy as a sack of coal, or as th

oppressed her mount, clawing with two great talons at his breast. Her fabulous head reposed upon

eplied that he knew nothing, neither he nor his companions, but that

y the foul thing which hung upon his nec

he dusty sky. Their weary faces bore no witness to despair; they were condemned to hope for ever. So the p

nquerable Indifference fell upon me. And I was no more d

XICA

ters! If you would escape Time's bruises and his heavy b

find intoxication lessened or passed away, ask of the wind, of the wave, of the star, of the bird, of the timepiece; ask all that flies, all that sighs, all that revolves, all that sings, all that speaks-ask of these the hour. And the wind,

MARK

the driver to halt at a shooting-gallery, saying

ster Time the most usual and

accursed wife; the mysterious woman who was his inspirati

nto the distance. His charming wife laughed deliriously, m

nose turned up and so supercilious an air. Think, s

led the trigger. The doll'

evitable and merciless muse, he kissed her hand respectfully

DENCE OF

re to Sa

March

ll most surely interest you. It is necessary-that is to say that I desire, that Edgar Poe, who is not very great in America, should be

r elsewhere? Because, in that case, I would write to M. Lalanne not to entrust

in the United States) that I announce new studies. I shall speak of the opinions

ays troubled sou

re to Sa

, 26th Ma

y Asselineau, and it would have been necessary for the book to have been given to anot

r of your letter, give you some det

en to draw the Public: "Juggling, hypotheses, false rumours," etc. "Ligeia" i

tic: "Hallucinations, mental maladies, pu

tement of the scientific and literary opinions of the author. It is even necessary that I should write to M.

of view. We shall pretend to wish to consider Poe only as a juggler, but I shall come back at the finish to the supernatural character of his poetry and his stories

souls, after the destruction of the earth. There are three dialogues of this kind that I shall

of mine, one of critical articles and the other of poems. Thus, I make my excuses to you beforehand; and, besides, I fea

rs

volume of Poe I shall put

not wish me to ask him to take note of the orthography

re to Sa

arch,

he word "souvenir" on the copy of the "Nouvelles histoires extraordinaires," that I laid aside for you yesterday at the "Monite

two-thirds of the first. The third volume (in process of pub

world is called "Conversati

al faults are corrected. Michel knows that he must keep a copy for you.

ffecti

re to Sa

, 18th Au

Est-Ange fils) insists that I talk to you about it, and I should be very happy if you could grant me a little conversation of three minutes to-day wherever you like, at your house or elsewhere. I did not wish to call on you une

e copies of my brochure; I wil

ry affe

re to Sa

18th Ma

y coming to see you after four o'clock I shall perhaps be able to find you. In any case, whether I dece

s al

re to Sa

June,

FRI

same time most delicate, most subtle, most femininely fine! (On the subject of feminine fineness I wanted to obey you and to read the work of the stoic. In spite of the respect I ought to hav

this article has inspired me with terrible jealousy. So much has been said about Lo?ve-Weimars and of t

sketch? You, who love to amuse yourself in all depths, will you not make an excursion into the depths of Edgar Poe? You guess that the request for this service is connected in my mind with the visit I must pay to M. Pellet

the mud, and (pity me, it is the first time that I ha

imes, a little strain were not put on friendliness, on kindness, where would the hero of friendliness be? And if one did n

ou, as usual, that all t

rs

re than I lik

re to Sa

ugust,

t I think of men who are depressants and men who have a tonic influence. If, then, I unsettle y

re to Sa

ebruar

ld read it, I protest against a certain line (on the subject of "The Flowers of Evil"), page 17

ards two chiefs of ancient romanticism to whom I owe all; it

I am connected with the author, will perhaps believe that I have been capable of prompting this passage." It is exactly the cont

m the long letter that you sent me at the time of my lawsuit, and which will serve, perhaps, as a plan for the making of a Preface. New "Flowers" are done, and passably out o

n a month without receiving any books, and to run t

and write to me

os (this address

of the old rasca

re to Sa

ebruar

a friendly, complimentary letter; the other, a scheme of the address that you gave to me on the eve of my lawsuit. As, one day, I was classifying papers with Malassis, he begged me to give him that, and when I told

y cause myself and if I had known how to develop this thesis, that a

well-bred young man. Every one knows that you have rendered many services to men younger than yourself. How has M.

all, has also seen the passage, and his

you to write a word to Mme. Duval, 22, rue Beautreillis, to let

sinc

re to Sa

4th Mar

tain as good a position as yours, I shall be a man of stone. I have just read a very funny article of the "rascal

of a meanness) I think that you attribute too much importance to him. He gives me the impression of bein

sinc

re to Sa

8

FRI

, because I have so strong a presentiment that

a letter couched as nearly a

ficiels'! I know Messrs. So-and-so,

of D

e. (It is not I speaking.) Pay a v

ns, of which I guess part, perhaps estrange you fro

f being upheld, and I ought to have g

t this essay has not any co

Montparnasse. On the way I passed a gingerbread shop, and the fixed idea took hold of me that you must like ginger

of gingerbread, encrusted with angelica, for an idle j

ose that it has neither holes nor pores, full of ginger and aniseed. It is cut in slices as thin as roast beef,

re to Sa

January

owe you! When will this end

at explains to you the delay b

a churl, an impossible and crabbed man. Once, in a wicked journal, I read some lines about my repulsive ugliness, well designed to alienate all sympathy (it was hard for a man who has loved the

ul to you for it-I, who have always said that it was not sufficie

ngth to make an immense Siberia of it, but a warm and populous one. When I see your activity, your vitality, I am quite ashamed; h

arrive at this certainty of pen which allows you to say everything and makes a game of every difficulty for you? This article is not a pamphlet, for it

ide-I should have been able to give you two or three enormities that you

de. I, also, have done it, Utopia, reform;-is it an old revolutionary movement that drove me, also, long ago, to make schemes for a co

g to make a pamphlet of y

o find some minutes to

f working, physical ills, have

f my principal books. My very res

you think my idea good, I will write a letter to M. Villemain before next Wednesday, in which I will briefly say that it seems to me that the choice of a candidate must not only be directed by the desire of success, b

le he talks, with the expression and the solemnity (but not with the good faith) of Mlle. Lenormand. I have seen this lady in the

nce take back all that I have just said; and, for

papist, I am worth more than him ... even

her, who is very much bored, is continually asking me for novelties. I have sent her your

ery de

re to Sa

ing, 3rd Fe

y continuing my visits, in order to let it be well understood that I want, with regard to the election in replacement of Father Lacordaire, to gather some votes from men of letters.

He is an admirable and delightful man, but not fitted for action, and ev

nth of fretfulness and neuralgia for me.... I say this

horror!), Sandeau. Really, I do not remember any others. I have not b

oks to ten of those whose works I know. Thi

my conduct is infamous, is it not?) in the "Revue anecdotique" As for the article itself, I

able to find any pleasure, I shall go the round of them in

seems to me that I, after having said, "The most noble causes are sometimes upheld by bumpkins," I should have considered my work finished. But you have particular

eral packets of reveries in prose, without counting a huge work on t

ou are well. That is

ake you by the hands

re to Sa

March

Muller, of Liège, by whose side I take luncheon, -and in the evening, after dinner, I am re-reading "Joseph Delorme" with Malassis. Decidedly, you are

"Vie de César?" Is it

s al

RUE DE LA M

re to Sa

30th Mar

me look (to the stranger) like an academician, I have great need of some one who loves me enough to call me his "son"; but I cannot help thinking of that burgrave of 120 years of age who, speaking to a burgrave of eighty, s

ntention whatever of getting the least advertisement for this book out of you. My only aim was, knowing as you well know how to distribute your time, to provide you with an occasion for e

hing, in a country where there is nothing, and we have understood that certain pleasu

the atheist and when I try to play the Jesuit. You know that I can become religious by contradiction (above all here) so that, to make me impious, it would be sufficient to put me in contact with a slovenly curé (slovenly of body and soul). As for the publication of some humorous books which it has

the hand, the Belgians made fun of him.... That is unworthy. A man can be worthy of respect for his vitality. Vitality of the negro, it is t

or four volumes, the best of my articles on the "Stimulants," the "Painters," and the "Poets," adding thereto a series of "Observations on Belg

fred Réthel), another, "Biography of the Flowers of Evil," and then a last: "Chateaubriand and his Family." You kno

ee him remaining in the state of an outcast and rebel. (I alluded to his stubbornness in presenting himself at the Institute.) He replied: "My dear sir, if my right arm was struck by paralysis, my capacity as member of the Institute would give me the right of teaching, and if I always keep well the Institute can serve to pay my coffee and cigars. I

s very extraordinary. He speaks, it seems, with the au

t the great poets of France! And a fortnight after, an article in favour of Cicero! Do they take Cicero f

ry affe

nd an admirable melancholy ode by Shelley, composed on the s

do not love; but I am one of those whom

re to Sa

y 4th M

on your nomination, I find a letter that I wrote you on March 31st which has not ye

me. If it makes you laugh, I shall not say "So much the worse," but "So much the b

have not the courage to finish here) and that, obliged to go to Honfleur to seek all the other pieces composing the books announced t

. That this momentarily cuts off supplies, I do not think so great an evil. He will be constrained to do other things. It is more to count on the universal mind than to brave c

s trifles which demand unfailing good-humour (good-humour necessary even to treat of sad subjects), a strange stimulant which needs sights, crowds, music, even street

onstrous, Jesuitical style which pleases me so much, and which I hardly know except from the chapel of the college at Lyons, which is made with different coloured marbles. Anvers has a museum of a very special kind, full of unexpected things, even for those who can put the Flemish school in

al (officially) of many mediocre people. That matters little. You wi

s al

re to Sa

July,

ris without coming to shake you by the

me important business for me with MM. G.... If you could intervene in my favour with one or two authoritativ

y devote

morrow evening. Till then, I am at the H?t

XEL

2nd Janua

OD FR

and the little calotte itself is not hidden. Shall I tell you I am so bored that this simple image has done me good? The phrase has an impertinent air. It means simply that, in the loneliness in which some old Paris friends have left me (J. L. in particular

in hand, he was a bon bougre; but he was not, and would never have been, even on paper, a dandy. For that I shall never pardon hi

or and accoucheur of souls. They said the same thing of Socrates, I think; but

as criminal as all the preceding ones. What good can I wish you? You are virtuou

man who is tired. Do not reply to me

ry affe

re to Sa

anuary

all the kinder of you because I know you are very busy. If I am sometimes long in replyi

f it should be necessary to give up beer, I do not ask anything better. Tea and coffee, that is more serious; but will pass. Wine? the devil! it is cruel. But here is a still harder creature who says I must neither read nor study. What a

ne of these days, a new Joseph Delorme, grappling with his rhapsodic thought at each incident in his stroll and drawing from each object a d

are old friends. It appears that, when I was a boy, I had not such very bad taste. (The same thing happened to me in December with Lucain. "Pharsale," always glittering, melancholy,

irty pages of confidences on this subject; but I think I should do better to write them first in good French

uggestions of the book w

than heretofore, the "Consola

nt the following pieces: "So

an comediennes? I have often had the pleasure of hearing Mme. de Mirbel lecture her and it was very comical. (After all, perhaps I am deceiving myself; perhaps it is another Mme. G

entlemen really feel the thunderclap or the enchantment of an object of art? And are you then very much afraid of not being

than formerly the object and the art of narratives such as "Doudun," "Marèze," "Ramon," "

ount of a watch-night, by the side of an unknown corpse, addre

ion (landscape or furni

h of lutes, lyres, harps, and Jehovahs. This is a blemish in

! I should never have dared to

in. (Why should one reread, with pleasure, in pr

Saint-Louis"

lée," p. 113. Here

(Charming

e Kirke Wh

utiful October l

o pay you compliments, and I h

ire to

25th Augu

lied to your affectionate sentiments. But if you knew in what an abyss of puerile occupations I have been plunged! And

on Thursday; it has

s for the editors, suppression of numbers 20, 30, 39,

ways, as

ire to

June,

e, I was beset by the impossibility of rendering an account of certain actions or sudden thoughts of man, without the hypothesis of the intervention of an evil force outside himself. Here is

all stop at Rouen; but, as I presume that you are like me and

mockery? Many people, not counting myself,

e no more feeling, no more dreaming; and it is to be pur

r very dev

"Tentation" and another strange book of which you have

ire to

January

anging into an act of wisdom by my persistence. If I had time enough (it would ta

Baudelaire write prose?"). I should be very much obliged if you would write to him what you think of me. I shall g

er, beyond which I do not know what to send. But, what is very ab

wrote a masterly article, a pamphlet, enough to make

yours d

ire to

RI

anuary

AR FL

Sacred Legions. You have the blind faith of fri

on the Academy and the candidateships. This has been the talk for

ich I do not repent. Even if I should not obtain a single vote, I shall not repent of it. An election takes place on February 6th, but it is from the last one (Lacordaire, February 20th) that I shall try to snatch two or three votes. I think of

ways of solitude, and if I go away before your retu

Théophile Gautier, Banville, Flaubert, Leconte de Lisle-that is to say, pure literatu

and your

with a steel pen is like walkin

ire to

RI

bruary

AR FR

veritable trio performed by consummate artists. As for my affairs, Sandeau reproached me for taking him unawares. I ought to have seen him sooner. However, he will speak for me to s

ocate, a more than zealous panegyrist. That greatly excited my rivalry, a

ere is a little paper which

s. Hope to

spirant

ON BAUDELAI

N POETRY A

time of the Italian Renaissance, or in Spain in the seventeenth century, or in any land or in any century but this century and this land, we should be quite able to arrive at a perfect

this volume, and the monograph seems to give the lie direct to Wilde's assertion. There is nothing finer in French literature, more delicately critical, more viv

mantic fancy rendered him peculiarly able to appreciate the most delicate of Baudelaire's thoughts and tones of his music. Finally-a fact which has hitherto escaped notice in this connection-the "Mademoiselle de Maupin" of Gautier published in 1835 created much the same scandal and alarm as Baudelaire's "Les Fleurs du Mal" did in 1857. Although Théophile Gautier himself escaped the fate of being publicly pr

ing was lacking in the man, his temperament or his opportunities, to produce a masterpiece which, ranking with th

work was only known to a distinguished literary coterie. In England it had hardly been heard of. Swinburne, in 1866,

upon Gautier and Asselineau's "Charles Baudelaire; sa vie et son ?uvre." Mr. F. P. Sturm (in 1905) made a fine study of the poet as an introduction to an English verse translation of "Les Fleurs du Mal," publ

of the leisured and cultured classes. It was not only because the books of such writers were difficult of access and costly in price. Men and women privileged to enjoy and appreciate the work of Baud

with all the aplomb and success that would have attended their efforts if they had been directed towards any other newly risen want. This happened a generation ago. Mi

the "Everyman" library, are supplied at a sh

iterature, has an enormous circulation and a personal influence over hardworking middle-cl

g price has been attended with a success that has startled no

which has been hitherto thought to be far above the head of the ordinary reader is really not so in the

s subject-the personality and life of Charles Baudelaire-nevertheless takes it as the motif of a work of art in a way no less perfect t

look at Baudelaire with very different eyes fro

al." The book stirred literary France to its depths, and shook bourgeoisie France with horr

literary England in precisely the same fashion, the middle classes remainin

were natural products of the greatest master of metrical music since Shelley. But the ideas behind expression, attitude, and outlook-haunted visions o

point out the immense influence of Baudelaire upon the lit

ulse; the man of good birth and fine social chances who died a general paralytic; the apologist of cosmetics, t

it used to be said, was "won upon the playing-fields

itic of Baude

f circumstances that may end in the destruction of kingdoms and religions and the awakening of new gods. The change wrought, directly or indirectly, by 'The Flowers of Evil' alone is a

teaching goes from book to book, from the greater to the lesser, as the divine hierarchies emanate from Divinity, until ideas that were once paradoxical, or even blasphemous and unholy, h

ch literature. Then the influence spread across the Channel, and the Engli

s not sufficiently recognised. Gautier has pointed out how immensely Baudelaire was influenced by Th

e written a line had he not shown the way. Their name is Legion, and many of them do not merit the slightest atte

have drawn inspiration from him, are far fewer in number, the

rne, Walter Pater, Oscar Wilde, and the minor poet Ernest Dowson-who produced only one small volume of verses, but who, nevertheless, belongs directly

utiful in melodious verse; always the bitter taste left upon the lips of those who have kissed overmuch and overlong. The attitude is always that

cts alone, and those who would understand the poet must be content to draw their own deductions from these facts. It is no province of m

lear how much Swinburne owed to Baudel

xample, Baudelaire

au ciel d'automn

sse en moi mon

refluant, sur

cuisant de s

se en vain sur mo

che, amie, est

et la dent fér

mon c?ur; les b

un palais flét

s'y tue, on s'y p

autour de votr

fléau des ame

feu, brillants

eaux qu'ont épar

of "Causerie." It is fairly literal, it is more or less melodious in English. That it quite achieves the atmosphere of Baudelaire's poem I can hardly th

y of autumn,

sea of sadne

bbing, leaves

memory of th

and glides my f

seek, beloved

oth and talon

a heart which

n where the

ar and glut the

ms about your

ourge of spirits

es that at bright

ters that the be

neris" in "Ballads and Poems" are not directly derived from Baude

aken of all so

with things

ke the extreme h

kindles at the

ty! for thy mo

tter to me, m

the flesh of

vein whose heart

eep with flower-

e fruit of dea

th would tread t

r juice upon m

hange of cheer

mes high up in th

unning finger

rrows heard on

ways touch her

arred. Yea, Lord

liss, one hath

nowest how sweet

n is the same, the method is the same, and, for those who understand French as a Frenchm

ted can pursue these comparisons between the two p

and refined thought of our time. When I say that he succeeded Ruskin I do not mean to imply that he has the slightest ?sthetic affinity

e completest and most varied way. Baudelaire was certainly not Walter Pater's master in the same degree that he was the master

nclusions, was restated by Pater becaus

contemporary thought and contemporary literature when Pater began to weave his magical prose-will confirm what is no discovery of mine, but a fact of literature. They will recognise that, in the "

he rest; some mood of passion or insight or intellectual excitement is irresistibly real and attractive for us-for that moment only. Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end. A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a varie

s hands, or the face of one's friend. Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing of forces on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before evening. With this sense of the splendour of our experience and of its awful brevity, gathering all we are into one desperate effort to see and touch, we shall hardly have time to make theories about the things we see and touch. What we have to do is to be for ever curiously testing new opinions and courting new impressions, never acquiescing in a facile

un temple ou de

is sortir de c

à travers des fo

t avec des reg

échos qui de l

ébreuse et p

a nuit et com

couleurs et les s

ms frais comme de

autbois, verts c

orrompus, riche

nsion des cho

le musc, le ben

transports de l'e

never yet been able to understand. The worshippers in this temple of night wander through a huge and

rough the forest, coming together in one deep mingled sound

n this temple. They are all infinitely varied. There are sounds as fragrant as childhood itself. There ar

sk, the perfumes form themselves into one harmonic chord in which the enraptured senses and tha

odern life into one receptive cistern of the brain where consciousness stands tasting all that comes,

down. It was as though a ghost, a revenant, had appeared. Meanwhile the play had been produced in Berlin, and from that moment it held the European stage. It ran for a longer consecutive period in Germany than any play by any Englishman-not excepting Shakespeare. Its popularity extended to all countries where it was not prohibited. It was performed throughout Europe, Asia, and America. It was even played in Yiddish ... that was the beginning. At the present moment

his own. Baudelaire gave Wilde-or rather Wilde took from Baudelaire-some

single hour than life can make us live in a score of shameful years? Close to your hand lies a little volume, bound in some Nile-green skin that has been powder

orte que tu

e! et soi

wrote it; nay, not for a moment only, but for many barren, moonlit nights and sunless, sterile days will a despair that is not your own make its dwelling within you, and the misery of another gnaw your heart away. Read the whole book, suffer it to tel

nt of what he himself owed to Baudelaire, but it is a

over again in the poems of Oscar Wilde. We find them in "

Wilde was saturated with the sombre melodies of such poems as "Le Vin de l'Assassin," and "Le Vin des Chiffonniers.

rd, Wilde's biographer, says that in his opinion the poet's admiration for that frightful and distorted work of genius was merely assumed. But Mr. Sherard tells us

poem "Le Chat," which I am about to quote, are identical in thought and feeling with the opening sta

my room for longer

t Sphinx has watched

oo

ciously or uncon

u chat, sur mon

s griffes

plonger dans t

métal et

r

s and leers, and on t

silky fur, or ripple

n

ieds jusqu

il, un dang

ur de son c

h is absolutely conclusive. In all the criticism of Wilde's work, I d

delaire in that section of "Les Fleurs du Mal" entitled "Spleen et Idéal," called "Les Chats." I have already pointe

to me to express Baudelaire at his best. The poem "Les Chats" has been translated by Mr. Cyril Scot

ervents et les

ent, dans leu

nts et doux, org

t frileux et comm

science et d

silence et l'horr

pris pour ses co

au servage incli

n songeant les

x allongés au fo

endormir dans u

ds sont pleins d'é

s d'or, ainsi q

ent leurs prune

Mr. Scott'

overs and all

ars incline up

ighty cats-pri

em are indolent,

of Learning a

silence and the

sed them for hi

ave bent their p

ey display those

nxes-stretched o'

mber deep in a d

loins a fountain

parkling gold,

stic pupils o

poems of Oscar Wilde in the collected edition, issued by Messrs. Methuen-and he wil

reverberating words of the Sph

words about the last name on

years ago and left very little to the world-though what he left was almost perfect within its scope and purpose. I knew Dowson well, and he has often told me the debt he ow

wo verses of "Impe

out for ever, if God s

gra

ength of days, nor cr

the great lost days

ce

touch once more and

e of all Thy flowers,

ro

feet are torn and

h s

dgment-seat, when this

whereof I sowed,

bt

le desire that over and over again glow out in such

er- that was the task that I set out to do. In this essay I have only endeavoured to show how Baudelaire has influenced modern English po

ed with the few translations I have made of Baudelai

ign author into English. I feel sure that this is untrue. One cannot, of course, translate a perfect piece of French or German prose into English which has quite the s

ice, that French or German prose cannot be adequately translated is becau

ation, to him, would be a labour of love; the financial reward would be infinitesimal. This being so, the English public must depend upon inferior translat

now be a household word. If any well-known stylist and novelist of to-day would spend a year over translating Flaubert'

oing their own work, and French classics must remain more or less hidden from

few of them carry their amourettes over the Channel. Yet if any one doubts my contention that foreign work can be translated almost flawlessly let me remind him of John Addington Symonds'

eded to translate it into his own language. His renderings of Poe have not only introd

ire says of

parente et correcte comme un bijou de cristal,-par son admirable style, pur et bizarre,-serré comme les mailles d'une armure,-complaisant et minutieux,-et dont la plus légère intention sert à pousser doucement le lecteur vers un but voulu,-et enfin surtout par ce génie tout spécial, par ce tempéram

sprit is it not said! There is all the breadth and generality which comes from a culture, minute,

an example, in gathering a flower from a garden so rich in blooms. I think, however, that the following parallel excerpts from "Ligeia" exhibit Poe in his

nd elasticity of her footfall. She came and departed as a shadow. I was never made aware of her entrance into my closed study, save by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder. In beauty of face no maiden ever equalled her. It was the radiance of

é, l'élasticité de son pas. Elle venait et s'en allait comme une ombre. Je ne m'apercevais jamais de son entrée dans mon cabinet de travail que par la chère musique de sa voix douce et profonde, quand elle posait sa main de marbre sur mon épaule. Quant à la beauté de la figure, aucune femme ne l'a jamais égalée. C'

ity and to trace home my own perception of the 'strange.' I examined the contour of the lofty and pale forehead-it was faultless; how cold indeed that word when applied to a majesty so divine! the skin rivalling the purest ivory, the commanding extent and repose, the gentle prominence of the regions above the temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the luxuriant and naturally curling tresses, se

arité et de poursuivre jusqu'en son g?te ma perception de 'l'étrange.' J'examinais le contour de front haut et pale-un front irréprochable-combien ce mot est froid appliqué à une majesté aussi divine!-la peau rivalisant avec le plus pur ivoire, la largeur imposante, le calme, la gracieuse proéminence des régions au-dessus des tempes et puis cette chevelure d'un noir de corbeau, lustrée, luxuriante, naturellement bouclée, et démontrant

rilliancy almost startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon them in her serene and placid, yet most exultingly radiant of all smiles. I scrutinised the formation of the chin -and here, too, I found the gentleness of

dents réfléchissant comme une espèce d'éclair chaque rayon de la lumière bénie qui tombait sur elles dans ses sourires sereins et placides, mais toujours radieux et triomphants. J'analysais la forme du menton, et là aussi je trouvais l

ble for a great writer to translate the prose of anothe

ount of freedom. The translator has first to study the poem with a care that directs itself to the dissecting, analysing and saturating himself with what the poet means to convey, rather than the actual words in which he conveys it.

es of Baudelaire which, while literally accurate, fail to give the English r

, however, but will cont

island, where

trees and lu

ose bodies are

se frankness delig

sponding verse from that lo

esseuse où l

uliers et des f

le corps est min

nt l'?il par sa

uld go on growing because he was so little read. T

on, but is still comparatively

may serve as hors d'?uvre to a magic feast which awaits any one who cares to wander through th

.

PE

om M. Sai

8

AR FR

of "art," and if we could talk to each other on the subject of this book, there would be much to say. You, also, are of those who look for poetry everywhere; and because, before you, others have sought it in all the easily accessible places, because you have been left little room, because the earthly and the celestial fields were rather too heavily harvested, and that for thirty years and more lyrics of all kinds have been written, because you have come so late and the last, you have said to yourself, I imagine: "Ah well, I shall still find poetry, and I shall find it where no one else has thought of gathering and extracting it," and you have taken Hell, you have ma

t nights, that, when "the white and rosy dawn," appearing suddenly, comes in com

assoupie un ang

thought, so that all these dreams of evil, all these obscure forms, and all these outlandish interweavings wherein your imagination has wearied itself would have appeared in their true guise-that is to say

which is rarely) to reopen this little volume, at what I have dared to say, to express in it. But, in obedience to the impulse and natural progress of my sentiments, I wrote a selection the following year, still very imperfect, but animated by a gentler, purer inspiration, "Les Consolations," and, thanks to this simple development towards good, I have been almost p

p to these stanzas, "A celle qui est trop gaie," which seem to me exquisitely done. Why is this piece not in Latin, or rather in Greek, and included in the section of the "Erotica" of the "Anthology"? The savant, Brunck, would have gathered it into the "Analect

u by the side of the sea, along a cliff, without pretending to play the mentor, I should try to trip you up, my dear fri

s al

TE-B

N

ial Para

ou,

, Charles,

literary

ius, Madagasc

styl

putati

of Edgar Poe

f paraly

th,

dicti

lea

rd, Fe

loz

uinc

ix, Eug

n aux En

Alexand

ation

res, J

bert

s of Ev

, Théop

ot, Mm

ys

nd, Mll

Mich

es of S

is, 13

s Vieil

an, H

gar, 29

parisi

e-Beu

u, Mme

u, Jul

eil,

harles Alger

érieure,

Alfred

emai

, Osc

the Wor