Death but a painted phantom with no sting,
— And took for studio a burial-ground.
But my soul is a sepulchre, where I,
A false Franciscan, dwell eternally,
And no walls glow with pictured mysteries.
When shall I rise from living death, to take
My pain as rich material, and make
Work for my hands, with pleasure for mine eyes?
AN IDEAL OF LOVE
(L’Idéal)
I hate those beauties in old prints,
Those faded, simpering, slippered pets;
Vignetted in a room of chintz,
And clacking silly castanets.
I leave Gavarni all his dolls,
His sickly harems, pale and wan,
The beauties of the hospitals
I do not wish to look upon.
Red roses are the roses real!
Among the pale and virginal
Sad flowers, I find not my ideal
... Vermilion or cardinal!
The panther-women hold my heart —
Macbeth’s dark wife, of men accurst,
... A dream of Æschylus thou art,
’Tis such as thou shall quench my thirst!
... Or Michelangelo’s daughter, Night,
Who broods on her own beauty, she
For whose sweet mouth the Giants fight,
Queen of my ideal love shall be!
THE SOUL OF WINE
(L’me du vin)
Vermilion the seals of my prison,
Cold crystal its walls, and my voice
Singeth loud through the evening; a vision
That bid’st thee rejoice!
Disinherited! outcast! — I call thee
To pour, and my song in despite
Of the World shall enfold and enthrall thee
Pulsating with light!
Long labours, fierce ardours, and blazing
Of suns on far hill-sides, and strife
Of the toilers have gone to the raising
Of me into life!
I forget not their pains, for I render
Rewards; yea! in full-brimming bowl
To those who have helped to engender
My passionate soul!
My joys are unnumbered, unending,
When I rise from chill cellars to lave
The hot throat of Labour, ascending
As one from the grave.
The Sabbath refrains that thou hearest,
The whispering hope in my breast,
Shalt call thee, dishevelled and dearest!
To ultimate rest.
The woman thy youthfulness captured,
Who bore thee a son — this thy wife —
I will give back bright eyes, which enraptured
Shall see thee as Life!
Thy son, a frail athlete, I dower
With all my red strength, and the toil
Of his life shall be king-like in power,
... Anointed with oil!
To thee I will bow me, thou fairest
Gold grain from the Sower above.
Ambrosia I wedded, and rarest
The fruits of our love.
High God round His feet shall discover
The verses I made, in the hours
When I was thy slave and thy lover,
Press upwards like flowers!
THE INVOCATION
(Prière)
Glory to thee, Duke Satan. Reign
O’er kings and lordly state.
Prince of the Powers of the Air
And Hell; most desolate,
Dreaming Thy long, remorseful dreams
And reveries of hate!
O let me lie near thee, and sleep
Beneath the ancient Tree
Of Knowledge, which shall shadow thee
Beelzebub, and me!
While Temples of strange sins upon
Thy brows shall builded be.
THE CAT
(Le Chat)
Most lovely, lie along my heart,
Within your paw your talons fold,
Let me find secrets in your eyes —
Your eyes of agate rimmed with gold!
For when my languid fingers move
Along your rippling back, and all
My senses tingle with delight
In softness so electrical,
My wife’s face flashes in my mind;
Your cold, mysterious glances bring,
Sweet beast, strange memories of hers
That cut and flagellate and sting!
From head to foot a subtle air
Surrounds her body’s dusky bloom,
And there attends her everywhere
A faint and dangerous perfume.
THE GHOST
(Le Revenant)
With some dark angel’s flaming eyes
That through the shadows burn,
Gliding towards thee, noiselessly,
— ’Tis thus I shall return.
Such kisses thou shalt have of me
As the pale moon-rays give,
And cold caresses of the snakes,
That in the trenches live.
And when the livid morning comes,
All empty by thy side,
And bitter cold, thou’lt find my place;
Yea, until eventide.
Others young love to their embrace
By tenderness constrain,
But over all thy youth and love
I will by terror reign.
LES LITANIES DE SATAN
O Satan, most wise and beautiful of all the angels,
God, betrayed by destiny and bereft of praise,
Have pity on my long misery!
Prince of Exile, who hast been trodden down and vanquished,
But who ever risest up again more strong,
O Satan, have pity on my long misery!
Thou who knowest all; Emperor of the Kingdoms
that are below the earth,
Healer of human afflictions,
Have pity on my long misery!
Thou who in love givest the taste of Paradise
To the Leper, the Outcast and those who are accursed,
O Satan, have pity on my long misery!
O thou who, of Death, thy strong old mistress,
Hast begotten the sweet madness of Hope,
Have pity on my long misery!
Thou who givest outlaws serenity, and the pride
Which damns a whole people thronging round the scaffold,
O Satan, have pity on my long misery!
Thou who knowest in what corners of the envious earth
The jealous God hath hidden the precious stones,
Have pity on my long misery!
Thou whose clear eye knoweth the deep arsenals
Wherein the buried metals are sleeping,
O Satan, have pity on my long misery!
Thou whose great hand hideth the precipice
And concealeth the abyss from those who walk in sleep,
Have pity on my long misery!
Thou who by enchantment makest supple the bones
of the drunkard
When he falleth under the feet of the horses,
O Satan, have pity on my long misery!
Thou who didst teach weak men and those who suffer
To mix saltpetre and sulphur,
Have pity on my long misery!
Thou, O subtle of thought! who settest thy mask
Upon the brow of the merciless rich man,
O Satan, have pity on my long misery!
Thou who fillest the eyes and hearts of maidens
With longing for trifles and the love of forbidden things,
Have pity on my long misery!
Staff of those in exile, beacon of those who contrive
strange matters,
Confessor of conspirators and those who are hanged,
O Satan, have pity on my long misery!
Sire by ad
option of those whom God the Father
Has hunted in anger from terrestrial paradise,
Have pity on my long misery!
ILL-STARRED!
(Le Guignon)
To raise this dreadful burden as I ought
It needs thy courage, Sisyphus, for I
Well know how long is Art, and Life how short.
— My soul is willing, but the moments fly.
Towards some remote churchyard without a name
In forced funereal marches my steps come;
Far from the storied sepulchres of fame.
— My heart is beating like a muffled drum.
Full many a flaming jewel shrouded deep
In shadow and oblivion, lies asleep,
Safe from the toiling mattocks of mankind.
Sad faery blossoms secret scents distil
In trackless solitudes; nor ever will
The lone anemone her lover find!
Note. — It seems fairly obvious — and perhaps this is a discovery — that Baudelaire must have read Gray’s “Elegy.” As we know, he was a first-class English scholar, and whether he plagiarised or unconsciously remembered the most perfect stanza that Gray ever wrote, one can hardly doubt that the gracious music of the French was borrowed from or influenced by the no less splendid rhythm of —
“Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
LINES WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF AN EXECRATED BOOK
(Épigraphe pour un livre condamné)
Sober, simple, artless man,
In these pages do not look,
Melancholy lurks within,
Sad and saturnine the book.
Cast it from thee. If thou know’st
Not of that dark learnèd band,
Whom wise Satan rules as Dean;
Throw! Thou would’st not understand.
Yet, if unperturbed thou canst,
Standing on the heights above,
Plunge thy vision in the abyss
— Read in me and learn to love.
If thy soul hath suffered, friend,
And for Paradise thou thirst,
Ponder my devil-ridden song
And pity me ... or be accurst!
THE END OF THE DAY
(La Fin de la journée)
Beneath a wan and sickly light
Life, impudent and noisy, sways;
Most meaningless in all her ways.
She dances like a bedlamite,
Until the far horizon grows
Big with sweet night, at last! whose name
Appeases hunger, soothes the shame
And sorrow that the poet knows.
My very bones seem on the rack;
My spirit wails aloud; meseems
My heart is thronged with funeral dreams.
I will lie down and round me wrap
The cool, black curtains of the gloom
That night hath woven in her loom.
LITTLE POEMS IN PROSE
VENUS AND THE FOOL
How glorious the day! The great park swoons beneath the Sun’s burning eye, as youth beneath the Lordship of Love.
Earth’s ecstasy is all around, the waters are drifting into sleep. Silence reigns in nature’s revel, as sound does in human joy. The waning light casts a glamour over the world. The sun-kissed flowers plume the day with colour, and fling incense to the winds. They desire to rival the painted sky.
Yet, amidst the rout, I see one sore afflicted thing. A motley fool, a willing clown who brings laughter to the lips of kings when weariness and remorse oppress them; a fool in a gaudy dress, coiffed in cap and bells, huddles at the foot of a huge Venus. His eyes are full of tears, and raised to the goddess they seem to say:
“I am the last and most alone of mortals, inferior to the meanest animal, in that I am denied either love or friendship. Yet I, even I, am made for human sympathy and the adoration of immortal Beauty. O Goddess, have pity, have mercy on my sadness and despair.”
But the implacable Venus stares through the world with her steady marble eyes.
THE DESIRE TO PAINT
Unhappy is the man, but happy the artist, to whom this desire comes.
I long to paint one woman. She has come to me but seldom, swiftly passing from my sight, as some beautiful, unforgettable object the traveller leaves behind him in the night. It is long ago since I saw her.
She is lovely, far more than that; she is all-sufficing. She is a study in black: all that she inspires is nocturnal and profound. Her eyes are two deep pools wherein mystery vaguely coils and stirs; her glance is phosphorescent; it is like lightning on a summer night of black velvet.
She is comparable to a great black Sun, if one could imagine a dark star brimming over with happiness and light. She stirs within one dreams of the moon, Night’s Queen who 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 driven clouds; not the pale, peaceful moon who visits the sleep of the pure; but the fiery moon, tom from the conquered heavens, before whom dance the witches of Thessaly.
Upon the brow determination sits; she is ever seeking whom she may enthrall. Her delicately curved and quivering nostrils breathe incense from unknown lands; a haunting smile lingers on her subtle lips — lips softer than sleep-laden poppy petals, kissed by the suns of tropic lands.
There are women who inspire one with the desire to woo and win. She makes me long to fall asleep at her feet, beneath her slow and steady gaze.
EACH MAN HIS OWN CHIMÆRA
Beneath a vault of livid sky, upon a far-flung and dusty plain where no grass grew, where not a nettle or a thistle dared raise its head, men passed me bowed down to the ground.
Each bore upon his back a great Chimæra, heavy as a sack of coal, or as the equipment of a foot-soldier of Rome.
But the monster was no dead weight. With her all-powerful and elastic muscles she encircled and oppressed her mount, clawing with two great talons at his breast. Her fabulous head reposed upon his brow, like a casque of ancient days whereby warriors struck fear to the hearts of their foes.
I questioned one of the wayfarers, asking why they walked thus. He replied that he knew nothing, neither he nor his companions, but that they moved towards an unknown land, urged on by irresistible impulse.
None of the wayfarers was discomforted by the foul thing which hung upon his neck. One said that it was part of himself.
Beneath the lowering dome of sky they journeyed on. They trod the dust-strewn earth — earth as desolate as the dusty sky. Their weary faces bore no witness to despair; they were condemned to hope for ever. So the pilgrimage passed and faded into the mist of the horizon, where the planet unveils itself to the human eye.
For some moments I tried to solve this mystery; but unconquerable Indifference fell upon me. And I was no more dejected by my burden than they by their crushing Chimæras.
INTOXICATION
To be drunken for ever: that is the only thing which matters! If you would escape Time’s bruises and his heavy burdens which weigh you to the earth, you must be drunken.
But how? With the fruit of the wine, with poetry, with virtue, with what you will. But be drunken. And if, sometime, at the gates of a palace, on the green banks of a river, or in the shadowed loneliness of your own room, you should awake and 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, the wave, the star, the bird, and the timepiece will answer you: “It is the hour to be drunken! Lest you be martyred slaves of Time, intoxicate yourselves, be drunken without cease! With wine, with poetry, with virtue, or with what you will.”
THE MARKSMAN
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As the carriage passed through the wood he told the driver to halt at a shooting-gallery, saying that he wished to have a few shots to kill time.
Is not the slaying of the monster Time the most usual and legitimate occupation of man?
So he graciously offered his hand to his dear, adorable, accursed wife; the mysterious woman who was his inspiration, to whom he owed many of his sorrows, many of his joys.
Several bullets went wide of the mark; one flew far away into the distance. His charming wife laughed deliriously, mocking at his clumsiness. Turning to her, he said brusquely:
“Look at that doll yonder, on your right, with its nose turned up and so supercilious an air. Think, sweet angel, I will picture to myself that it is you.”
He closed his eyes, he pulled the trigger. The doll’s head fell upon the ground.
Then, bending over his dear, adorable, accursed wife, his inevitable and merciless muse, he kissed her hand respectfully, and said: “Ah, sweet Angel, how I thank you for my skill!”
CORRESPONDENCE OF BAUDELAIRE
Baudelaire to Sainte-Beuve
19th March, 1856.
Here, my dear patron, is a kind of literature which will not, perhaps, inspire you with as much enthusiasm as it does me, but which will 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 become a great man in France. Knowing how brave you are and what a lover of novelty, I have boldly promised your support to Michel Lévy.
Can you write me a line telling me if you will do something in the “Athenæum” or elsewhere? Because, in that case, I would write to M. Lalanne not to entrust this to any one else — your pen having a peculiar authority of which I am in need.
You will see at the end of the Notice (which contradicts all the current opinions in the United States) that I announce new studies. I shall speak of the opinions of this singular man later, in the matter of sciences, philosophy, and literature.
I deliver my always troubled soul into your hands.
Collected Poetical Works of Charles Baudelaire Page 56