Part 6
The rumour of Baudelaire's death spread in Paris with the winged rapidity of bad news, faster than an electric current along its wire. Baudelaire was still living, but the news, though false, was only premature; he could not recover from the attack. Brought back from Brussels by his family and friends, 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 dungeon of clay which would only open in the tomb. What good is it to go into the details of this sad end? It is not a happy way to die; it is sorrowful, for the survivors, to see so fine and fruitful an intelligence pass away, to lose in a more and more deserted path of life a companion of youth.
Besides the "Flowers of Evil," translations of Edgar Poe, the "Artificial Paradises," and art criticisms, Baudelaire left a little book of "poems in prose" inserted at various periods in journals 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 or literary paper. This is the first time that these pieces, scattered and difficult to find, are bound in one volume, nor will they be the least of the poet's titles to the regard of posterity.
In the short Preface addressed to Arsène Houssaye, which precedes the "Petits poèmes en prose," Baudelaire relates how the idea of employing this hybrid form, floating between verse and prose, came to him.
"I have a little confession to make to you. It was in turning over, for the twentieth time, the famous 'Gaspard de la nuit' of Aloysius Bertrand (a book known to 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 description of modern life, or rather to a modern and more abstract life, the process that he has applied to the painting of an ancient time, so strangely picturesque.
"Who among us, in these days of ambition, has not dreamt of the miracle of poetical, musical prose, without rhythm, without rhyme, supple enough and apt enough to adapt itself to the movements of the soul, to the swaying of a dream, to the sudden throbs of conscience?"
It is unnecessary to say that nothing resembles "Gaspard de la nuit" less than the "Poems in Prose." Baudelaire himself saw this after he commenced work, and he spoke of an _accident_, of which any other than he would have been proud, but which only humiliated a mind which looked upon the accomplishment of _exactly_ what it had intended as an honour.
We have seen that Baudelaire always claimed to direct his inspiration according to his own will, and to introduce infallible mathematics into his art. He blamed himself for producing anything but that upon which he had resolved, even though it is, as in the present case, an original and powerful work.
Our poetical language, it must be acknowledged, in spite of the valiant effort of the new school to render it flexible and malleable, hardly lends itself to rare and subtle detail, especially when the subject is _la vie moderne_, familiar or luxurious. Without having, as at one time, a horror for the calculated word and a love of circumlocution, French verse, by its very construction, refuses particularly significant expressions and if forced into direct statement, immediately becomes hard, rugged, and laborious. "The Poems in Prose" came very opportunely to supply this deficiency, and in this form, which demands perfect art and where each word must 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 the "Flowers of Evil" has drawn from it marvellous effects, and one is sometimes surprised that the language carries one through the transparencies of a dream, in the blue distances, marks out a ruined tower, a clump of trees, the summit of a mountain, and shows one things impossible to describe, which, until now, have never been expressed in words. This should be one of the glories, if not the greatest, of Baudelaire, to bring within the range of style a series of things, sensations, and effects unnamed by Adam, the great nomenclator. A writer can be ambitious of no more beautiful title, and this the author of the "Poems in prose" undoubtedly merits.
It is very difficult, without writing at great length--and, even then, it is better to direct the reader straight to the poems themselves--to give a just idea of these compositions; pictures, medallions, bas-reliefs, statuettes, enamels, pastels, cameos which follow each other rather like the vertebrae in the spine of a serpent. One is able to pick out some of the rings, and the pieces join themselves together, always living, having each its own soul writhing convulsively towards an inaccessible ideal.
Before closing this Introduction, which, although already too long--for we have simply chased through the work of the author and friend whose talent we endeavour to explain--it is necessary to quote the titles of the "Poems in Prose"--very superior in intensity, concentration, profoundness, and elegance to the delicate fantasies of "Gaspard de la nuit," which Baudelaire proposed to take as models. Among the fifty pieces which comprise the collection, each different in tone and composition, we will number "Le Gâteau, "La Chambre double," "Le Foules," "Les Veuves," "Le vieux saltimbanque," "Une Hémisphère dans une chevelure," "L'Invitation au voyage," "La Belle Dorothée," "Une Mort héroïque," "Le Thyrse," Portraits de maîtresses," "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 the cradle of a sleeping child, bathing it in her baneful and splendid light; she dowers the sweet pale head like a fairy god-mother, and murmurs in its ear: "Thou shalt submit eternally to the influence of my kiss, thou shalt be beautiful after my fashion. Thou shalt love what I love and those that love me: the waters, the clouds, the silence, the night, the great green sea, the shapeless and multiform waters, the place where thou art not, the lover whom thou knowest not, the prodigious flowers, the perfumes that trouble the mind, the cats which swoon and groan like women in hoarse or gentle voices."
We know of no other analogy to this perfect piece than the poetry of Li-tai-pe, so well translated by Judith Walter, in which the Empress of China draws, among the rays, on the stairway of jade made brilliant by the moon, the folds of her white satin robe. A _lunatique_ only is able to understand the moon and her mysterious charm.
When we listen to the music of Weber we experience at first a sensation of magnetic sleep, a sort of appeasement which separates us without any shock from real life. Then in the distance sounds a strange note 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 magic forest opens, stretching out into blue vistas peopled with all the fantastic folk described by Shakespeare in "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Titania herself appears in the transparent robe of silver gauze.
The reading of the "Poems in Prose" has often produced in us these impressions; a phrase, a word--one only--bizarrely chosen and placed, evoke for us an unknown world of forgotten and yet friendly faces. They revive the memories of early life, and present a mysterious 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 beware, for such things as these make us homesick, like the "Ranz des vaches" of the poor Swiss lansquenet in the German ballad, in garrison at Strasbourg, who swam across the Rhine, was retaken and shot "for having listened too much to the sound of the horn of the Alps."
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.
_February_ 20_th_, 1868.
SELECTED POEMS OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
DONE INTO ENGLISH VERSE
BY GUY THORNE
EXOTIC PERFUME
(_Parfum exotique_)
With eve and Autumn in mine eyes confest, I breathe an incense from thy heart of fire, And happy hill-sides tired men desire Unfold their glory in the weary West.
O lazy Isle! where each exotic tree Is hung with delicate fruits, and slender boys Mingle with maidens in a dance of joys That knows not shame, where all are young and free.
Yes I thy most fragrant breasts have led me home To this thronged harbour; and at last I know Why searching sailors venture on the foam....
--'Tis that they may to Tamarisk Island go. For there old slumberous sea-chants fill the air Laden with spices, and the world is fair.
THE MURDERER'S WINE
(_Le vin de l'assassin_)
My wife is stiffened into wax. --Now I can drink my fill. Her yellings tore my heart like hooks, They were so keen and shrill. 'Tis a King's freedom that I know Since that loud voice is still.
The day is tender blue and gold, The sky is clear above ... Just such a summer as we had When first I fell in love. ... I'm a King now! Such royal thoughts Within me stir and move!
I killed her; but I could not slake My burning lava-wave Of hideous thirst--far worse than that Of some long-tortured slave-- If I had wine enough to fill Her solitary, deep grave.
In slime and dark her body lies; It echoed as it fell. (I will remember this no more.) Her tomb no man can tell. I cast great blocks of stone on her, The curb-stones of the well.
We swore a thousand oaths of love; Absolved we cannot be Nor ever reconciled, as when We both lived happily; ... 'Twas evening on a darkling road When the mad thing met me.
We all are mad, this I well think. ... The madness of my wife Was to come, tired and beautiful, To a madman with a knife! I loved her far too much, 'twas why I hurried her from life.
I am alone among my friends, And of our sodden crowd No single drunkard understands I sit apart and vowed. They do not weave all night, and throw Wine-shuttles through a shroud!
True love has black enchantments; chains That rattle, and damp fears; Wan phials of poison, dead men's bones, And horrible salt tears. Of this the iron-bound drunkard knows Nothing, nor nothing hears.
I am alone. My wife is dead, And dead-drunk will I be This self-same night, a clod on earth With naught to trouble me. A dog I'll be, in a long dog-sleep, Oblivious and free!
The chariot with heavy wheels Comes rumbling through the night. Crushed stones and mud are on its wheels, It is a thing of might! The wain of retribution moves Slowly, as is most right.
It comes, to crack my guilty head Or crush my belly through, I care not who the driver is; God and the devil too --Sitting side by side--can do no more Than that they needs must do!
MUSIC
(_La Musique_)
Music can lead me far, and far O'er mystical sad seas, Where burns my pale, high-hanging star Among the mysteries Of Pleiades.
My lungs are taut of sweet salt air; The pregnant sail-cloths climb The long, gloom-gathering ocean stair. I don the chord-shot cloak of Time While the waves chime!
Fierce winds and sombre tempests come And bludgeon heavily All our vibrating timbers ... drum Most passionately. O Sea! Liberate me!
So shall thy mighty void express Both depths and surface. There Opens thy magic mirror; men confess To Thee their sick despair ... No otherwhere.
THE GAME
(_Le jeu_)
In faded chairs old courtesans With painted eyebrows leer. The stones and metal rattle in Each dry and withering ear, As lackadaisical they loll, And preen themselves, and peer.
Their mumbling gums and lipless masks --Or lead-white lips--are prest Around the table of green cloth; And withered hands, possest Of Hell's own fever, vainly search In empty purse or breast.
Beneath the low, stained ceiling hang Enormous lamps, which shine On the sad foreheads of great poets Glutted with things divine, Who throng this ante-room of hell To find the anodyne.
I see these things as in a dream, With the clairvoyant eye, And in a cottier of the den A crouching man descry; A silent, cold, and envying man Who watches. It is I!
I envy those old harlots' greed And gloomy gaiety; The gripping passion of the game, The fierce avidity With which men stake their honour for A ruined chastity.
I dare not envy many a man: Who runs his life-race well; Whose brave, undaunted peasant blood Death's menace cannot quell. Abhorring _nothingness_, and strong Upon the lip of Hell.
THE FALSE MONK
(_Le mauvais moine_)
Upon the tall old cloister walls there were Some painted frescoes showing Truth; so we, Seeing them thus so holy and so fair, Might for a space forget austerity.
For when the Lord Christ's seeds were blossoming, Full many a simple, pious brother found 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'Âme 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 adoption 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.