I
The first time that we met Baudelaire was towards the middle
of the year 1849, at the Hôtel Pimodan, where we occupied, near
Fernand Boissard, a strange apartment which communicated with his
by a private staircase hidden in the thickness of the wall, and
which was haunted by the spirits of beautiful women loved long
since by Lauzun. The superb Maryx was to be found there who, in her
youth, had posed for "La Mignon" of Scheffer, and later, for "La
Gloire distribuant des couronnes" of Paul Delaroche; and that other
beauty, then in all her splendour, from whom Clesinger modelled "La
Femme au serpent," that statue where grief resembles a paroxysm of
pleasure, and which throbs with an intensity of life that the
chisel has never before attained and which can never be
surpassed.Charles Baudelaire was then an almost unknown genius,
preparing himself in the shadow for the light to come, with that
tenacity of purpose which, in him, doubled inspiration; but his
name was already becoming known amongst poets and artists, who
heard it with a quivering of expectation, the younger generation
almost venerating him. In the mysterious upper chamber where the
reputations of the future are in the making he passed as the
strongest. We had often heard him spoken of, but none of his works
were known to us.His appearance was striking: he had closely shaved hair of a
rich black, which fell over a forehead of extraordinary whiteness,
giving his head the appearance of a Saracen helmet. His eyes,
coloured like tobacco of Spain, had great depth and spirituality
about them, and a certain penetration which was, perhaps, a little
too insistent. As to the mouth, in which the teeth were white and
perfect, it was seen under a slight and silky moustache which
screened its contours. The mobile curves, voluptuous and ironical
as the lips in a face painted by Leonardo da Vinci, the nose, fine
and delicate, somewhat curved, with quivering nostrils, seemed ever
to be scenting vague perfumes. A large dimple accentuated the chin,
like the finishing touch of a sculptor's chisel on a statue; the
cheeks, carefully shaved, with vermilion tints on the cheek-bones;
the neck, of almost feminine elegance and whiteness, showed
plainly, as the collar of his shirt was turned down with a Madras
cravat.His clothing consisted of a paletot of shining black cloth,
nut-coloured trousers, white stockings, and patent leather shoes;
the whole fastidiously correct, with a stamp of almost English
simplicity, intentionally adopted to distinguish himself from the
artistic folk with the soft felt hats, the velvet waistcoats, red
jackets, and strong, dishevelled beards. Nothing was too new or
elaborate about him. Charles Baudelaire indulged in a certain
dandyism, but he would do anything to take from his things the
"Sunday clothes" appearance so dear and important to the
Philistine, but so disagreeable to the true gentleman.Later, he shaved off his moustache, finding that it was the
remains of an old picturesqueness which it was both childish and
bourgeois to retain. Thus, relieved of all superfluous down, his
head recalled that of Lawrence Sterne; a resemblance that was
augmented by Baudelaire's habit of leaning his temple against his
first finger, which is, as every one knows, the attitude of the
English humorist in the portrait placed at the beginning of his
books.Such was the physical impression made on us after our first
meeting with the future author of "The Flowers of
Evil."We find in the "Nouveaux Camées parisiens" of Théodore de
Banville, one of the poet's best and most constant friends whose
loss we deplore, a portrait of Baudelaire in his youth. We are
permitted to transcribe the lines here, prose equal in perfection
to the most beautiful verse. It portrays Baudelaire as he is very
little known, and as he was only at that particular
time."In a portrait painted by Émile Deroy, one of the rarest
works of art by modern painters, we see Charles Baudelaire at
twenty years of age, at a time when, rich, happy, well-loved,
already becoming celebrated, he wrote his first verses which were
applauded by Paris, the literary leader of the whole world! O rare
example of a divine face, uniting all graces, power, and most
irresistible seductiveness! The eyebrow well-marked and curved like
a bow, the eyelid warm and softly coloured; the eye, large, black,
deep and of unequalled fire, caressing and imperious, embraces,
interrogates and reflects all that surrounds it; the nose,
beautifully chiselled, slightly curved, makes us dream of the
celebrated phrase of the poet:'Mon âme voltige sur les parfums, comme l'âme des autres
hommes voltige sur la musique!' The mouth is arched and refined by
the mind, and at the moment is of the delicate tint that reminds
one of the royal beauty of freshly plucked fruit. The chin is
rounded, but nevertheless haughty and powerful as that of Balzac.
The whole face is of a warm pallor, under which the rose tints of
beautiful rich blood appear. A newly grown beard, like that of a
young god, decorates it. The forehead, high and broad,
magnificently drawn, is ornamented by black, thick hair, naturally
wavy and curly like that of Paganini, which falls over a throat
worthy of Achilles or Antinous."One must not take this portrait too literally. It is seen
through the medium of painting and poetry, and embellished by a
certain idealisation. Still, it is no less sincere and faithful of
Baudelaire as he appeared at that time. Charles Baudelaire had his
hour of supreme beauty and perfect expansion, and we relate it
after this faithful witness. It is rare that a poet, an artist, is
known in the spring-time of his charm.Reputation generally comes later, when the fatigue of study,
the struggles of life, and the torture of passion have taken away
youthfulness, leaving only the mask, faded and altered, on which
each sorrow has made her impress. It is this last picture, which
also has beauty, that one remembers. With his evasive singularity
was mingled a certain exotic odour like the distant perfume of a
country well loved of the sun. It is said that Baudelaire travelled
for some time in India, and this fact explains much.Contrary to the somewhat loose manners of artists
generally, Baudelaire prided himself upon observing the most
rigidconvenances; his courtesy
was often excessive to the point of affectation. He measured his
phrases, using only the most carefully selected terms, and
pronounced certain words in a particular manner, as though he
wished to underline them and give them a mysterious signification.
Italics and capital letters seemed to be marked in his
voice.Exaggeration, much in honour at Pimodan's, he disdained
as theatrical and coarse, though he allowed himself the use of
paradox. With a very simple, natural, and perfectly detached air,
as though retailing,à laPrudhomme, a newspaper paragraph on the state of the weather,
he would advance monstrous axioms, or uphold with perfect
sang-froid some theory of mathematical extravagance; for he had
method in the development of his follies. His spirit was neither in
words nor traits; he saw things from a particular point of view
which changed their outlines, as objects seen in a bird's-eye view
are changed from when seen at their own elevation; he perceived
analogies, inappreciable to others, the fantastic logic of which
was very striking.His gestures were slow, sober, and rare; for he held southern
gesticulation in horror. Neither did he like volubility of speech,
and British reserve appealed to his sense of good form. One might
describe him as a dandy strayed into Bohemia; but preserving there
his rank, and that cult of self which characterises a man imbued
with the principles of Brummel.Such was our impression of Baudelaire at our first meeting,
the memory of which is as vivid as though it had occurred
yesterday.We were in the big salon, decorated in the style of Louis
XIV, the wainscot enriched and set off with dull gold of a perfect
tone, projecting cornices, on which some pupil of Lesueur or of
Poussin, having studied at the Hôtel Lambert, had painted nymphs
chased by satyrs through reed-grass, according to the mythological
taste of the period. On the great marble chimney, veined with
vermilion and white, was placed, in the guise of a clock, a golden
elephant, harnessed like the elephant of Porus in the battle of
Lebrun, supporting on its back a tower with an inscribed
dial-plate. The chairs and settees were old and covered with faded
tapestry, representing subjects of the chase by Oudry and
Desportes.It was in this salon, also, that the séances of the club of
hashish-eaters took place, a club to which we belonged, the
ecstasies, dreams, hallucinations of which, followed by the deepest
dejection, we have described.As was said above, the owner of this apartment was
Fernand Boissard, whose short, curly, fair hair, white and
vermilion complexion, grey eyes scintillating with light andesprit, red lips and pearly teeth,
seemed to witness to the health and exuberance of a Rubens, and to
promise a life more than usually long. But, alas, who is able to
foresee the fate of another? Boissard, to whom none of the
conditions of happiness were lacking, fell a victim to a malady
much the same as that which caused the death of
Baudelaire.No one was better equipped than Boissard. He had the most
open-minded intelligence; he understood painting, poetry, and music
equally well; but, in him, the dilettante was stronger than the
artist. Admiration took up too much of his time; he exhausted
himself in his enthusiasms. There is no doubt that, had necessity
with her iron hand compelled him, he would have been an excellent
painter. The success that was obtained by the "Episode de la
retraite de Russie" would have been his sure guarantee. But,
without abandoning painting, he allowed himself to be diverted by
other arts. He played the violin, organised quartettes, studied
Bach, Beethoven, Meyerbeer, and Mendelssohn, learnt languages,
wrote criticisms, and composed some charming sonnets.He was a voluptuary in Art, and no one enjoyed real
masterpieces with more refinement, passion, and sensuousness than
he did. From force of admiring, he forgot to express beauty, and
what he felt so deeply he came to believe he had created. His
conversation was charming, full of gaiety and originality. He had a
rare gift of inventing words and phrases, and all sorts of bizarre
expressions, that linger in the mind.Like Baudelaire, amorous of new and rare sensations, even
when they were dangerous, he wished to know those artificial
paradises, which, later, made him pay so dearly for their transient
ecstasies. It was the abuse of hashish that, undoubtedly,
undermined his constitution, formerly so robust and
strong.This souvenir of a friend of our youth, with whom we lived
under the same roof, of a romantic to whom fame did not come
because he loved too much the work of others to dream of his own,
will not be out of place here, in this introduction destined to
serve as a preface to the complete works of a departed friend of us
both.On the day of our visit Jean Feuchères, the sculptor, was
there. Besides his talent in statuary, Feuchères had a remarkable
power of imitation, such as no actor was able to compass. He was
the inventor of the comic dialogues between Sergeant Bridais and
gunner Pitou, which even to-day provoke irresistible laughter.
Feuchères died first, and, of the four artists assembled on that
day at the Hôtel Pimodan, we only survive.On the sofa, half recumbent, her elbow resting on a cushion,
with an immobility of pose she often assumed, Maryx listened
dreamily to Baudelaire's paradoxes. No surprise was manifested on
her almost Oriental countenance. She wore a white robe, oddly
ornamented with red spots like tiny drops of blood, and while
Baudelaire talked she lazily passed the rings from one hand to
another—hands as perfect as was her figure.Near the window, the "Femme au serpent" (it is not permitted
to give her name) having thrown back her lace wrap and delicate
little green hood, such as never adorned Lucy Hocquet or Madame
Baurand, over an arm-chair, shook out her beautiful fawn-brown
hair, for she had come from the Swimming Baths, and, her person all
draped in muslin, exhaled, like a naiad, the fragrant perfume of
the bath. With her eyes and smile she encouraged this tilt of
words, and threw in, now and again, her own remarks, sometimes
mocking, sometimes appreciative.They have passed, those charming leisure hours, when poets,
artists, and beautiful women were gathered together to talk of Art,
literature, and love, as the century of Boccaccio has passed. Time,
Death, the imperious necessities of life, have dispersed this
mutually sympathetic group; but the memory is dear to all those who
had the good fortune to be admitted to it. It is not without an
involuntary sigh that these lines are penned.Shortly after this first meeting Baudelaire came to see us
and brought a volume of his verses. He himself relates this visit
in a literary article which he wrote about us in terms of such
admiration that we dare not transcribe them.From that moment a friendship was formed between us, in
which Baudelaire always wished to conserve the attitude of
favourite disciple to a sympathetic master, although he owed his
success only to himself and his own originality. Never in our
greatest familiarity did he relax that deference of manner which to
us seemed excessive and with which we would gladly have dispensed.
He acknowledged ità vive voix,
and the dedication of the "Flowers of Evil" which is addressed to
us, consecrates in its lapidary form the absolute expression of his
loving and poetical devotion.If we insist on these details, it is not for their actual
worth, but solely because they portray an unrecognised side of
Baudelaire's character.This poet, whom people try to describe as of so satanic a
nature, smitten with evil and depravity (literary, be it well
understood), knew love and admiration in the highest
degree.But the distinguishing feature of Satan is that he is
incapable of admiration or love. The light wounds him, glory is a
sight insupportable to him, and makes him want to veil his eyes
with his bat-like wings. No one, even at the time of fervour for
romanticism, had more respect and adoration for the great masters
than Baudelaire. He was always ready to pay his legitimate tribute
of praise to those who merited it, and that without the servility
of a disciple, without fanaticism; for he himself was a master,
having his realm, his subjects, and his coinage of
gold.It would perhaps be fitting, after having portrayed
Baudelaire in all the freshness of his youth and in the fulness of
his power, to present him as he was during the later years of his
life, before Death stretched out his hand towards him, and sealed
the lips which will no longer speak here below. His face was thin
and spiritualised; the eyes seemed larger, the nose thinner; the
lips were closed mysteriously, and seemed to guard ironical
secrets. The vermilion tints of the past had given place to a
swarthy, tired yellow. As to the forehead, it had gained in
grandeur and solidity—so to speak; one would have said that it was
carved in some particularly durable marble. The fine hair, silky
and long, nearly white, falling round a face which was young and
old at the same time, gave him an almost sacerdotal
appearance.Charles Baudelaire was born in Paris on April 21st, 1821, in
an old turreted house, in the Rue Hautefeuille. He was the son of
M. Baudelaire, the old friend of Condorcet and of Cabanis, a
distinguished and well-educated man who retained the polished
manners of the eighteenth century, which the pretentious tastes of
the Republican era had not so entirely effaced as is sometimes
thought. This characteristic was strong in the poet, who always
retained the outward forms of courtesy.In his young days Baudelaire was in no way out of the
ordinary, and neither did he gain many laurels at his college prize
distributions. He even found the B.A. examination a great
difficulty, and his degree was honorary. Troubled by abstract
questions, this boy, so fine of spirit and keen of intelligence,
appeared almost like an idiot. We have no intention of declaring
this inaptitude as a sign of cleverness; but, under the eye of the
pedagogue, often distrait and idle, or rather preoccupied, the real
man is formed little by little, unperceived by masters or
parents.M. Baudelaire died, and his wife, Charles's mother, married
General Aupick, who became Ambassador to Constantinople. Dissension
soon arose in the family à propos of young Baudelaire's desire for
a literary career. We think it wrong to reproach parents with the
fears they manifest when the gift of poetry develops in their
offspring. Alas! They are right. To what sad, precarious, and
miserable existence does he vow himself—he who takes up a literary
career? From that day he must consider himself cut off from human
beings, active life; he no longer lives—he is the spectator of
life. All sensation comes to him as motif for analysis.
Involuntarily he develops two distinct personalities, and, lacking
other subjects, one becomes the spy on the other. If he lack a
corpse, he stretches himself on the slab of black marble and buries
the scalpel deep in his own heart. And what desperate struggles
must he endure with the Idea, that elusive Proteus, who takes all
manner of forms to escape captivity, and who will only deliver his
oracle when he has been forced to show himself in his true aspect!
This Idea, when one holds it, frightened, trembling, vanquished,
one must nourish, clothe, fold round in that robe so difficult to
weave, to colour and to arrange in graceful curves. During this
long-drawn-out task the nerves become irritable, the brain on fire,
the sensibilities quickened, and then nervous disorder comes with
all its odd anxieties, its unconscious hallucinations, its
indefinable sufferings, its morbid capriciousness, its fantastic
depravity, its infatuations and motiveless dislikes, its mad energy
and nervous prostration, its searches for excitement and its
disgust for all healthy nourishment.We do not exaggerate the picture; but we have before us only
the talented poets, crowned with glory, who have, at the last,
succumbed on the breast of their ideal. What would it be if we went
down into the Limbo where the shades of still-born children are
wailing, like those abortive endeavours and larvæ of thought which
can achieve neither wing nor form? Yes! Desire is not power, nor is
Love possession!Faith is not enough. Another gift is necessary.In literature, as in religion, work without grace is
futile.Although they do not suspect this region of anguish, for, to
know it really, it is necessary to go down oneself, not under the
guidance of a Vergil or a Dante, but under that of a Lousteau, of a
Lucien de Rubempré, parents instinctively display the perils and
suffering of the artistic life in the endeavour to dissuade the
children they love, and for for whom they desire one more happy and
ordinarily human.Once only since the earth has revolved round the sun have
parents ardently wished to have a son's life dedicated to poetry.
The child received the most brilliant literary education, and, with
the irony of Fate, became Chapelain, the author of "La Pucelle"!
and this, one might even say, was to play with sinister
fortune!To turn his stubborn ideas into another course, Baudelaire
was made to travel. He was sent a great distance, embarking on a
vessel, the captain of which took him to the Indian seas. He
visited the Isles of Mauritius, Bourbon, Madagascar, Ceylon
perhaps, and some parts of the "Isle of the Ganges"; but he would
not, for all that, give up his intention of becoming a man of
letters. They tried vainly to interest him in commerce, but a trade
in cattle to feed Anglo-Indians on beefsteak had no attractions for
him. All he retained of this voyage was a memory of great splendour
which remained with him all his life. He gloried in a sky where
brilliant constellations, unknown in Europe, were to be found; the
magnificent vegetation with the exotic perfumes, the elegantly odd
pagodas, the brown faces and the soft white draperies—all that in
Nature was so warm, powerful, and full of colour.In his verses he was frequently led from the mists and mud of
Paris to the countries of light, azure, and perfume. Between the
lines of the most sombre of his poems, a window is opened through
which can be seen, instead of the black chimneys and smoky roofs,
the blue Indian seas, or a beach of golden sand on which the
slender figure of a Malabaraise, half naked, carrying an amphora on
the head, is running. Without penetrating too deeply into the
private life of the poet, one can imagine that it was during this
voyage that Baudelaire fell in love with the "Venus noire," of whom
he was a worshipper all his life.When he returned from his distant travels he had just
attained his majority; there was no longer any reason—not even
financial, for he was rich for some time at least—to oppose
Baudelaire's choice of a vocation; it was only strengthened by
meeting with obstacles, and nothing would deter him.Lodged in a little apartment under the roof of the same Hôtel
Pimodan where later we met him, as has been related earlier in this
introduction, he commenced that life of work, interrupted and
resumed, of varied studies, of fruitful idleness, which is that of
each man of letters seeking his particular field of labour.
Baudelaire soon found his. He conceived something beyond
romanticism—a land unexplored, a sort of rough and wild
Kamtschatka; and it was at the extreme verge that he built for
himself, as Sainte-Beuve, who thoroughly appreciated him, said, a
kiosque of bizarre architecture.Several of the poems which are to be found amongst the
"Flowers of Evil" were already composed. Baudelaire, like all born
poets, from the start possessed a form and style of which he was
master; it was more accentuated and polished later, but still the
same. Baudelaire has often been accused of studied bizarrerie, of
affected and laboured originality, and especially of mannerisms.
This is a point at which it is necessary to pause before going
further. There are people who have naturally an affected manner. In
them simplicity would be pure affectation, a sort of inverted
mannerism. Long practice is necessary to be naturally simple. The
circumvolutions of the brain twist themselves in such a manner that
the ideas get entangled and confused and go up in spirals instead
of following straight lines. The most complicated, subtle, and
intense thoughts are those which present themselves first. They see
things from a peculiar angle which alters the aspect and
perspective. All fancies, the most odd, unusual, and fantastically
distant from the subject treated of, strike them chiefly, and they
know how to draw them into their woof by mysterious
threads.Baudelaire had a brain like this, and where the critic has
tried to see labour, effort, excess, there is only the free and
easy manifestation of individuality. These poems, of a savour so
exquisitely strange, cost him no more than any badly rhymed
commonplace.Baudelaire, always possessed of great admiration for the old
masters, never felt it incumbent upon him to take them for models;
they had had the good fortune to arrive in the early days of the
world, at the dawn, so to speak, of humanity, when nothing had been
expressed yet, and each form, each image, each sentiment, had the
charm of virginal novelty. The great commonplaces which form the
foundation of human thought were then in all their glory and
sufficed for simple geniuses, speaking to simple
people.But, from force of repetition, these general subjects of
verse were used up like money which, from continual circulation,
has lost its imprint; and, besides, Life had become more complex,
fuller of originality, and could no longer be represented in the
artificial spirit of another age.