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5 ee to his contemporaries primarily as an art critic, but ambitious to secure a more lasting literary legacy, Charles Baudelaire, a Parisian bohe- mian, spent much of the 1840s composing gritty, often perverse, poems that expressed his disgust with the banality of modern city life.

First published in 1857, the book that collected these poems together, Les Fleurs du mal, was an instant sensation—earning Baudelaire plaudits and, simultaneously, disrepute. Only a year after Gustave Flaubert had endured his own public trial for published indecency (for Madame Bovary), a French court declared Les Fleurs du mal an offense against public morals and six poems within it were immediately suppressed (a ruling that would not be reversed until 1949, nearly a century after Baudelaire’s untimely death). Subsequent editions expanded on the original, including new poems that have since been recognized as Baudelaire’s masterpieces, producing a body of work that stands as the most consequential, controversial, and influ- ential book of poetry from the nineteenth century.

Acclaimed translator and poet Aaron Poochigian tackles this revolutionary text with an ear attuned to Baudelaire’s lyrical innovations—rendering them in “an assertive blend of full and slant rhymes

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The Flowers of Evil

(Les Fleurs du mal)

CHARLES

BAUDELAIRE

Translated by Aaron Poochigian

Introduction by Dana Gioia

Afterword by Daniel Handler

DA LIVERIGHT PUBLISHING CORPORATION A Division of W. W. Norton @& Company

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Copyright © 2022 by Aaron Poochigian Introduction copyright © 2022 by Dana Gioia Afterword copyright © 2022 by Daniel Handler

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Baudelaire, Charles, 1821-1867, author. | Poochigian, Aaron, 1973-, translator. | Gioia, Dana, writer of introduction. | Handler, Daniel, writer of afterword. | Baudelaire, Charles, 1821-1867. Fleurs du mal | Baudelaire, Charles, 1821-1967. Fleurs du mal. English Title: The flowers of evil = (Les fleurs du mal) / Charles Baudelaire; translated by Aaron Poochigian ; introduction by Dana Gioia; afterword by Daniel Handler, Other titles: Fleurs du mal Description: First edition. | New York, NY: Liveright Publishing Corporation, (2022) | Includes index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021011573 | ISBN 9781631498596 (hardcover) | ISBN 9782631498602 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Baudelaire, Charles, 1821-1867—Translations into Enffish. Classification: LCC PQ2191.F62 E5 2021 | DDC $41/.8—dce23 LC record available at https://lcen.loc.gov/2021011573

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CONTENTS

Introduction by Dana Gioia

A Note on the Translation by Aaron Poochigian

The Flowers of Evil

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

Ilove recalling those antique, nude times...

To the Reader 1 Benediction 2 The Albatross 3 Elevation 4 Correspondences 5 6 The Beacons 7 The Sick Muse 8 The Muse for Sale 9 The Bad Monk 10 The Fiend 11 BadLuck 12 The Past Life 13. Traveling Gypsies 14 ManandtheSea 15 DonJuanin Hell 16 Punishment for Pride 17 + Beauty 18 Theldeal

XV

ly

19 20 21 21X 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 31x 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 43x 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

The Giantess

The Mask

Hymn to Beauty

The Jewels

Exotic Perfume

Her Hair

I love you as I love nocturnal skies... Adulterated woman, you would screw the whole... Sed non satiata

When she, a billow of bejeweled clothing...

A Serpent Dancing |

A Carcass

De profundis clamavi

The Vampire

Lethe

Once, sleeping witha horrid Jewish crone... Postmortem Remorse

The Cat

Duellum

The Balcony

The Possessed

A Phantom

I dedicate this poem to you so that...

Semper cadem

All Together

What will you say tonight... The Lit Torch

To One Who Is Too Cheerful Reversibility

Confession

The Spiritual Dawn

The Harmony of Evening The Perfume Bottle Poison

Cloudy Sky

24 24 26 27 28 29 30 30 32 32 32 34 35 36 37 38 38 39

40

40 41 42

44 45 45

46 AT 47

49 50 51 52 52 53 54

51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

76

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

The Cat The Beautiful Ship

The Invitation to the Voyage

The Irreparable

A Conversation Autumn Song

Toa Madonna

Song of the Afternoon Sisina

Franciscae meae laudes To a Creole Lady Moesta et errabunda The Revenant Autumn Sonnet

The Sorrows of the Moon The Cats

The Owls ; The Pipe

Music

The Burial

A Fantastical Engraving The Happy Corpse The Cask of Hate

The Cracked Bell Spleen (I)

Spleen (IT)

Spleen (TT)

Spleen (IV)

Obsession

The Taste for Nothingness

The Alchemy of Grief Reflected Horror Heautontimoroumenos The Irremediable The Clock

55 56 58 59 61 62 63 64 66 67 68 69 70 70 71 71 72 73 73 74 74 75 75 76 77 77 78 719 719 80 81 81 82 83 85

86 87 88 89 90 91 92, 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103

104 105 106 107 1038

109 110

PARISIAN SCENES

Landscape*

The Sun

To a Red-Haired Beggar Girl TheSwan

The Seven Old Men

The Little Old Ladies

The Blind

Toa Woman Passing Skeleton Laborers

Twilight |

Gambling

Danse Macabre

The Love of Lying

I still recall the little whitewashed lodging where...

Think of my kind old nurse you once were jealous of...

Mists and Rains Parisian Dream Morning Twilight

WINE

The Soul of Wine

The Ragpickers’ Wine

The Murderer’s Wine a The Loner’s Wine

The Lovers’ Wine

FLOWERS OF EVIL

Destruction A Martyr

110x Lesbos

110xx The Damned Women: Delphine and Hippolyta 11

The Damned Women

89 89 90 92 94 96 100 100 101 102 103 104 107 108 108 109 109 112

115 116 117 119 119

123 123 126 128 132,

112 The Two Good Sisters 113. The Fountain of Blood 114 Allegory 115 The Beatrice 115x The Metamorphoses of the Vampire 116 AVoyageto Cythera 117. Loveandthe Skul! REVOLT 118 Saint Peter’s Denial 119 ©Abeland Cain 120 The Litanies of Satan DEATH 121 The Lovers’ Death 122 The Death ofthe Poor 123 The Death of Artists 124 TheEnd ofthe Day 125 The Dream of an Odd Man 126 Voyaging Les Fleurs du mal Au lecteur SPLEEN ET IDEAL 1 Bénédiction ‘ 2 WLAlbatros 3 Elévation 4 Correspondances 5 J’aime le souvenir de ces €poques nues... 6 LesPhares 7 LaMuse malade

133 134 134 135 136 137 139

143 144 145

151 151 152 152 153 154

165

169 171 172 173 173 175 176

31x

La Muse vénale Le Mauvais Moine VEnnemi Le Guignon La Vie antérieure Bohémiens en voyage L'Homme et la Mer Don Juan aux enfers Chatiment de l’orgueil La Beauté L'Idéal La Géante Le Masque Hymne 4 la beauté Les Bijoux Parfum exotique La Chevelure Jetiadore alégal... Tu mettrais l'univers entier dans taruelle... Sed non satiata Avec ses vétements ondoyants et nacrés... Le Serpent qui danse Une Charogne De profundis clamavi Le Vampire Le Léthé

ad

Une nuit que j’étais prés d’une affreuse Juive...

Remords posthume

Le Chat

Duellum

Le Balcon

Le Possédé

Un Fantéme

Je te donne ces vers afin que simonnom... Semper eadem

Tout entiére

177 177 178 179 179 180 180 181 182 183 183 184 184 186 187 188 189 190 190 191 192 192 194 195 196 197 198 198 199 200 200 201 202 204 205 205

42 43

Que diras-tu ce soir...

Le Flambeau vivant

43x Acelle quiest trop gaie

44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 73 76

Réversibilité Confession

L’Aube spirituelle Harmonie du soir

Le Flacon

Le Poison

Ciel brouillé

Le Chat

Le Beau Navire L'Invitation au voyage LiIrréparable Causerie

Chant d’automne

A une madone Chanson d’aprés-midi Sisina

Franciscae meae laudke Aune dame créole Moesta et errabunda

Le Revenant

Sonnet d’automne Tristesses de la lune Les Chats

Les Hiboux

La Pipe

La Musique Sépulture

Une Gravure fantastique Le Mort joyeux

Le Tonneau de la haine La Cloche felée Spleen (I)

Spleen (II)

206 207 207 209 210 aii 212 212. 214 214 215 217 218 220 221 222 223 225 226 227 228 229 230 230 231 232 232, 233 233 234 235 235 236 236 237 238

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103

104 105 106

Spleen (IT])

Spleen (IV}

Obsession

Le Gott du néant Alchimie de la douleur Horreur sympathique L’Héautontimorouménos UIrrémédiable

L’Horloge

TABLEAUX PARISIENS Paysage Le Soleil A une mendiante rousse Le Cygne Les Sept Vieillards Les Petites Vieilles Les Aveugles A une passante Le Squelette laboureur Le Crépuscule du soir Le Jeu Danse macabre L'Amour du mensonge

Jen’ai pas oublié, voisine de la ville...

La servante au grand coeur dont vous étiez jalouse...

Brumes et Pluies Réve parisien

Le Crépuscule du matin

LE VIN

LAme du vin Le Vin des chiffonniers Le Vin de l'assassin

249 250 250 2:53 255 257 260 260 261 262 264 265 267 268 268 269 270 272

277 278 279

107. Le Vindusolitaire 108 Le Vindes amants

FLEURS DU MAL

109 LaDestruction

110 Une Martyre

110x Lesbos

110xx Femmes damnées (Delphine et Hippolyte) 111 Femmes damnées

112 Les Deux Bonnes Sceurs

113 ‘LaFontainede sang

114 ~=6@Allégorie

1145 LaBéatrice

115x Les Métamorphoses du vampire 116 Un Voyage 4Cythére

117. LAmouretleCrane ¢$

REVOLTE

118 Le Reniement de saint Pierre 119 AbeletCain 120 ~#=Les Litanies de Satan

LA MORT

121 LaMortdesamants 122, LaMortdes pauvres 123 LaMortdes artistes 124 LaFindelajournée 125 Le Réved’uncurieux 126 Le Voyage

Afterword by Daniel Handler Notes Index

281 281

285 285 287 290 294 295 296 296 297 298 299 301

305 306 307

313 313 314 314 315 316

323 329 339

INTRODUCTION

I

Charles Baudelaire was the first modern poet. In both style’and con- tent, his provocative, alluring, and shockingly original work shaped and enlarged the imagination of later poets, not only in his native France but across Europe and the Americas. His work guided the Symbolist movement, which became the dominant school of Modernist poetry, and inspired the Decadent and Aesthetic movements. Half a century later, his presence still haunted Surrealism. Nor was Baudelaire’s impact restricted to literature. His ideas on the autonomy of art, the alienation of the artist, the irrationality of human behavior, the intellectualization of poetry, the cult of beauty (and the beauty of evil), and the frank depiction of sexuality became central to Modernist aesthetics. He also popular- ized less exalted cultural trends such as Satanism, sexual degradation, and the use of drugs for artistic inspiration. Not all of these ideas origi- nated with Baudelaire, but his distinctive articulation of these principles became the Jingua franca of international Modernism.

Baudelaire’s outsize impact is notable because his public career had such limited success during his short life. Little read yet much misun- derstood, he survived, just barely, on the margins of the literary world. He never commanded a large audience, though he achieved unwanted notoriety from an obscenity trial. By the time of his death in 1867, how- ever, he had attracted a coterie of admirers who would guide the course of late hineteenth-century French poetry—most notably Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud, and Stéphane Mallarmé. This devoted cult soon

spread Baudelaire’s posthumous reputation beyond the poet's own sad

xvi INTRODUCTION

fantasies. Rimbaud declared him “the first seer, the king of poets, a true God.” Algernon Charles Swinburne elegized him as his strange and somber brother of “Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous.” Stefan George translated Les Fleurs du malinto German and trained his circle of young intellectual elites in Symbolist principles.

By 1924 poet-critic Paul Valéry would claim that Baudelaire was the most widely translated French poet, the only one whose work could cross borders to win an international audience. “Though there may be French poets greater and more powerfully endowed than Baudelaire,” Valéry observed, “there is none more important.” In 1939 Walter Benja- min confirmed that verdict, declaring that “Les Fleurs du mal was the last lyric work that had a European repercussion; no later work penetrated beyond a more or less limited linguistic area.” Benjamin overstated his case—Rainer Maria Rilke’s poetry had already begun to exercise its enduring international fascination—but he had made a cogent observa- tion. Baudelaire’s posthumous reputation had become tHe monolith of French poetry, tall enough to be seen from abroad. He had eclipsed his contemporaries; if they were to be seen by posterity, it was mostly in rela- tion to him.

‘Baudelaire’s influence cannot be separated from his position in the artistic vanguard of Paris, the cultural center of nineteenth-century Europe. Whilethearts thrived from St. Petersburg to Madrid, creatorsand critics across the continent looked to Paris for innovation and excellence, not only because of the city’s wealth, size, and sophistication, but also, paradoxically, because it was in constant cultural and political turmoil. Revolutionary reformers battled social conservatives; secular progres- sives contended with religious traditionalists. No faction could estab- lish a lasting victory. The vitality of these ineradicable conflicts charged French culture with special energy. The violent dialectic created a milieu more diverse and creative than any other city in Europe or the Americas. Paris was the laboratory for new ideas and cultural institutions—not only in literature but also in painting, sculpture, architecture, opera, theater, and dance. Artists everywhere wanted to come to Paris. Like Hollywood a century later, Paris was where the money and fame were.

Nowhere was the accelerated creativity of Paris more evident than in

INTRODUCTION xvil

poetry, which possessed special cultural authority and was expected to articulate the spirit of the times. As French history changed, so did French poetry; each emerging movement offered the vision of a new age. Although Romanticism dominated English and German poetry for most of the nineteenth century, in France the movement was only a single episode in a cycle of artistic innovation. As the century began, French poetry was still dominated by Classicism, which emphasized simplic- ity of style, clarity of expression, traditional form, and strong emotion held in restraint. Then in rapid succession came Romanticism, Parnas- sianism, Decadence, and Symbolism. {In fictién, France was also the epi- center of Realism and Naturalism.) The rapid rise of these movements expressed the literary energy of Paris, where successive waves of young writers gathered in cafés, taverns, and salons to argue art and ideas. Meanwhile newspapers and journals—the mass media of the age—had ever more pages to fill. The growth of print media fostered a new urban class of writers. For the first time, a large number of writers could survive without official patronage.

The competing aesthetics of the period merged (and sometimes col- lided) in Baudelaire’s work. He absorbed and assimilated aspects of dif- ferent literary schools, transforming them into a personal poetics that resists classification. Baudelaire’s great achievement was to break the hold of Romanticism, though he was, by nature, a romantic. He created a new poetic style and sensibility that rejected the empty gestures of late Romanticism without losing its heroic energy. He fashioned a new vocabulary of images to describe the modern metropolis in ways that endowed it with sinister beauty and mystery.

Baudelaire did not entirely break with tradition. He crafted an elegant classical style—dense, lyric, and original—to express lurid, repugnant, and even obscene subjects that French literary conventions had either excluded or confined to treatment in the low style. He developed an aes- thetic capacious enough to assimilate the novelties, shocks, and conflicts of metropolitan life. He imbued sordid scenes with religious grace. His synthesis of traditional and innovative elements, always animated by the author’s desperate sincerity, conveyed the strange and startling beauty of modern Paris.

xvili INTRODUCTION

Baudelaire’s posthumous fame has not been limited to the page. Like Vincent van Gogh, his life has come to embody the myth of the doomed and alienated modern artist. The unhappy particulars of his existence— poverty, depression, public censure, alcoholism, drug abuse, sexual license, and disease—personify the poéte maudit, the “cursed poet.” His untimely death from syphilis canonized him as anew sort of tragic hero, the suffering artist who sacrificed all for creative freedom in a heart- less bourgeois world. Baudelaire’s identity as the ultimate doomed art- ist brings him into places modern poetry doesn't normally go. There are Baudelaire coffee mugs, T-shirts, and caps. There are posters, pillow- cases, corsets, hoodies, socks, and beach towels. There are plaques, stat- ues, rings, and medallions. One can buy a shot glass bearing his image and declaration: “I est l'heure de s’enivrer! Pour n’ étre pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse!” (It is the hour to get drunk! Not to be the martyred slave of Time. Get drunk; get drunk without stopping!). What other French poet has enough celebrity to qualify for product endorsement? One can’t buy a Paul Valéry corset or a Théophile Gautier hoodie.

Baudelaire died childless and unmarried, but literature even gave him a family, at least in name—the three Baudelaire children—Violet, Klaus, and Sunny—the long-suffering protagonists of Lemony Snicket's witty thirteen-novel cycle, A Series of Unfortunate Events. Even young adult readers know that children named Baudelaire are doomed to a miserable existence—les enfants maudits. None of this cultural bric-a-brac matters to literary scholars—as Snicket’s alter ego, Daniel Handler, acknowledges in his afterword to this volume—but its profusion will strike the aver- age reader as significant. There is something singular and unruly about Baudelaire’s legacy that can’t be confined to the pages of a book.

Neither Baudelaire’s artistic innovation nor his lyric genius, however, adequately explains the mesmerizing impact of his work on posterity. Victor Hugo had equal poetic talent and considerable originality, yet his verse remains unread outside France. There is something fundamen- tally different about Baudelaire’s imagination. Les Fleurs du mal portrays the author's experience—and indeed the author himseli—with extraor- dinary candor and unabashed intimacy. Yet the poems have a strange

INTRODUCTION xix

ambiguity that permits contradictory interpretations. The reader can entet Baudelaire’s pysche but not make complete sense of it.

Walt Whitman famously declared: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I coritain multitudes.)” In compari- son with Baudelaire, Whitman’s contradictions seem simple; the reader can discern how the Good Gray Poet feels about any subject. Baude- laire, however, offers contradictions beyond reconciliation. It isn't that his sense of his own existence is confused, though his life was demoral- ized and disorderly. His ambiguity arises from his refusal to simplify his experience or allow it to be resolved into any one thing. He does not con- descend to the reader (or himself) by pretending that human existence is reasonable or consistent.

Baudelaire took pride in the intellectuality of his creative process. (He developed his position from Edgar Allan Poe's “The Philosophy of Com- position,” which described the composition of “The Raven” as a series of conscious, intellectual decisions.) His versification displays impecca- ble classical logic. His poems bristle with ideas and opinions. But those external qualities are deceptive. His modes of thought are rarely analyt- ical; they are intuitive, emotional, and even visionary. He presents expe- rience with vivid and unfiltered immediacy. The formal and rhetorical perfection of his verse gives it a surface rationality that belies the agita- tion and puzzlement underneath.

A conventional myth of modern society is that the individual pos- sesses ‘a unified consciousness: a personality is assumed to be a single entity in which all parts form an ihdivisible whole. Contemporary neu- roscience, however, has demonstrated that human consciousness is an unstable republic of conflicting impulses, instincts, and appetites in per- petual flux. Baudelaire understood, or at least intuited, this unsettling reality before the scientists and psychologists. His poems pull the reader | into the vacillation of his consciousness as experienced from the inside.

Music was central to-Baudelaire’s method. He considered poetry an art of enchantment. A poem should cast a verbal spell that suspends the reader in a trance state of heightened attention and receptivity. That momentary enchantment allows the reader to experience contradictory thoughts and emotions, to feel hidden suggestions and connections that

xx INTRODUCTION

are never-fully disclosed or resolved in the poem. The reader interprets the poem—notasa deliberately constructed puzzle, but as a shared expe- rience still in the process of being understood. The verbal music gives the experience a feeling of order beyond the ambiguous scenes and sen- timents the poem expresses.

Baudelaire’s method places the reader in a more important position than had either the pellucid works of French Classicism or the personal declarations of Romanticism. Of course, readers also had to interpret those poems, butthe authors and the tradition gave them careful instruc- tions. When Alphonse de Lamartine announces that he loves a woman, that statement becomes a reliable basis to interpret everything that fol- lows, even if the poem contains some complications. When Baudelaire announces he loves his mistress Jeanne Duval, the assertion 6, to quote Flann O’Brien, “nearly an insoluble pancake, a conundrum of inscruta- ble potentialities, a snorter.”

Baudelaire’s interpretive difficulty was part of his attraction, espe- cially when it combined with his exquisite music and sensational sub- ject matter. He called for strong readers, and they came. His ambiguity became his legacy; it prefiguréd the aesthetics of Symbolism, which refined elements of Les Fleurs du mal into a style that worked by sugges- tion rather than statement, music rather than paraphrasable meaning. Symbolism needed even stronger readers. Their advent made Modernist poetry possible.

This ambiguity explains why Baudelaire can be credibly championed by Catholics as areligious poetand by Existentialists as anihilist, Marxists praise him as a proto-revolutionary who expressed the alienation of the urban masses, and Decadents as an aristocratic hedonist who dismissed bourgeois morality in his search for forbidden pleasures. He is both the Symbolist poet of pure imagination and the patron sinner of Satanism.

Baudelaire is all of these things because he allows the reader to col- laborate in the ultimate interpretation of his work. His imagination is not Shakespearean; Baudelaire lacks the “negative capability” of assum- ing different personalities. He is always and only himself—a real artist in mid-nineteenth-century Paris. Whether transgressive or traditional, sacrilegious or sacramental, Baudelaire eludes explanation. Yet he never

INTRODUCTION xxl

eludes-the reader. He meets the reader boldly, face-to-face, unembar- rassed by his flaws and failures. He knows his songs have made him beautiful.

II

Baudelaire was born in the Latin Quarter of Paris on April 9, 1821. His parents were an oddly matched couple. His father, Joseph-Francois, was sixty-two years old.at the time of the poet’s birth. His mother was thirty-four years younger. Joseph-Frangois Baudelaire was a product of the ancien régime. Ordained a priest before the Revolution, he had been a teacher and later a tutor for an aristocratic family. During the Reign

_ of Terror, like thousands of other clergy, he renounced his vows under

the threat of imprisonment, exile, or execution. An educated man with influential connections, he obtained a lucrative civil service position in the Senate bureaucracy and then married. He had one son, Claude Alphonse—the poet’s half brother. In 1819, after the death of his wife, the prosperous and cultivated widower married again. His new bride was the twenty-six-year-old Caroline Dufays. An impoverished orphan from an educated family, Dufays probably had few prospects for a respectable marriage. The match may not have been passionate, but it was comfort- able and affectionate. It also proved brief. The elder Baudelaire died in 1827, when the poet was six.

The young Charles spent his early years in a large house set in amaze of medieval streets on the Left Bank. (Most of the neighborhood was demolished in subsequent renovations of Paris.) The house, which had turrets and high-ceilinged rooms, was full of antique furniture, books, and paintings. The poet remembered his-father as a gentle and elegant man who took him on walks to the Luxembourg Gardens. Even after his father's death, Charles’s childhood was loving and secure. He was the object of his widowed mother’s devoted attention. He also had a large leg- acy from his father, which he would inherit at twenty-one. The boy lived in what he later called “the green paradise of childhood loves.”

His childhood paradise was destroyed by two events. Eighteen months-after Joseph-Frangois’s death, Caroline remarried. Her new hus-

xxii INTRODUCTION

band was Major Jacques Aupick, an ambitious soldier and diplomat. The couple lived mostly apart for three years while Aupick filled ambassa- dorial positions abroad. Then, in December 1831, the new family moved to Lyon. The resulting domestic drama has fascinated the poet’s biogra- phers. It became a classic Oedipal struggle that could have been scripted by Sigmund Freud. Young Charles, usurped from the monopoly of his mother’s attention, resented the stern and practical Aupick. Their rela- tionship remained polite if unaffectionate, but the poet's rancor erupted inhis teenage years. Even after they broke offrelations, Aupick's conspic- uous power and success filled Baudelaire with rage and bitter jealousy. Atschoolin Lyon, young Baudelaire missed Paris. He disliked his new city, his school, and the locals. Lyon, he later declared, was “a bigoted

and fussy city where everything, even religion itself, has to have the cal- |

ligraphic clarity of a cash register.” In 1836, the capable Aupick was pro- moted to colonel and assigned to Paris, and his stepson was transferred to Lycée Louis-le-Grand in the capital. Although Charles was a prize stu- dent, he turned moody, cynical, and stubborn. In his final year he was expelled for refusing to give his teacher a note that had been passed to him in class. The colonel handled the dilemma of his difficult stepson efficiently. Charles boarded with a tutor to finish his baccalauréat, the French high school degree.

Baudelaire now had to plan his future. His well-connected ‘stepta- ther suggested a diplomatic career. Charles declared he must pursue lit- erature. Whatever affection that still existed between the two stubborn men was exhausted in the acrimonious exchange. A compromise was reached; Baudelaire would read law. His half brother had prospered as a lawyer and magistrate. There had also been lawyers in his mother’s fam- ily. Charles moved to the Latin Quarter, ostensibly to begin legal studies; instead he devoted himself to literature and the pleasures of Paris. -

Full of youthful confidence, Baudelaire plunged into bohemian life. He set himself an ambitious reading program. He met writers and paint- ers. He attended plays, concerts, and cabarets. He visited bars and broth- els. He drank heavily and smoked hashish. He also contracted venereal disease. He financed his indulgences by borrowing money against his future inheritance. Baudelaire’s early adult years in Paris were a period

INTRODUCTION XXili

of immense intellectual and artistic growth, but they also established a pattern of dissipation that would burden and eventually shorten his life.

The poet’s mother and the newly promoted General Aupick worried about their wayward son. They soon realized his legal studies were a sham, and they understood the temptations young men faced in Paris. When they learned that Charles was borrowing money against his expectations, the family felt an intervention was necessary. His parents decided that a long ocean voyage would both help Charles mature and get him out of his detrimental Parisian haunts. In 1841 the reluctant poet boarded the Paquebot-des-Mers-du-Sud bound for India. The voyage proved arduous and uncomfortable. The ship was cramped and filthy, the equatorial heat oppressive. Near the Cape of Good Hope, a violent storm broke the mast and carried away much of the rigging. Slowly the damaged vessel drifted to Mauritius, where thé crew spent two weeks making repairs. When the boat stopped next on Réunion, the depressed and homesick Baudelaire refused to continue.

The young poet lingered two months on the lush voleanic island until a boat arrived headed for France. Although the trip had not matured Charles, as his stepfather had hoped, the voyage had nourished his imag- ination. He had experienced physical danger’and privation. He had watched sailors trap, torture, and eventually eat an elegant albatross. He had witnessed the beauty of tropical landscapes and sailed countless leagues of sea and sun and sky. He would never forget the images of his interrupted journey.

In February 1842 Baudelaire reappeared in Paris, to the astonishment of his family. He had returned, he claimed, full of wisdom but with empty pockets. Two months later he came of age and inherited a substantial leg- acy of approximately one hundred thousand francs, made up of land, investments, and cash. The young poet resolved to live in style. He rented a large apartment, which he filled with furniture and art. He bought styl- ish clothes and hosted friends at fine restaurants. No city offered so many pleasures, both coarse and cultivated, as Paris, but they came at a cost. Within a year Baudelaire had to sell his land to cover his expenses. His family watched his extravagance with horror and took careful account of his dwindling patrimony.

xxiv INTRODUCTION

As a fashionable young man-about-town, Baudelaire indulged in another expensive pleasure—he took a mistress. In 1842 the poet visited the Panthéon, a small vaudeville theater, where he saw Jeanne Duval, a Haitian-born actress and dancer of mixed French and African ancestry. Although she spoke only one line in the play, Duval caught the young writer’s attention. He sent her flowers and arranged a meeting for the next day. The two immediately became lovers. In the custom of the time, Baudelaire set her up in an apartment near his rooms at the Hétel Pimodan. (Paris was a huge and crowded city; lovers preferred to live within walking distance.) Having suddenly come into Baudelaire’s life, Duval would never entirely leave.

There followed two years of blissful indulgence. “I cared only for plea- sure, for continual excitation,” Baudelaire admitted. His romantic infat- uation with Duval filled an emotional as well as sexual vacuum. The poet had little experience with women beyond his impersonal dealings with prostitutes. The relationship was initially passionate, but there were cold calculations on both sides. For Baudelaire, Duval provided easy sex- ual experience without the obligations of marriage. For Duval, a recent immigrant of mixed race, Baudelaire offered much-needed financial security. Their affair was an economic transaction between a rich man and a poor woman, but there was also joy and affection before it became burdened with mutual disappointment and resentment.

Sexual fulfillment did not slow Baudelaire’s addictions. His nights with Duval involved consuming huge amounts of wine, brandy, and absinthe. The poet took laudanum, a mix of alcohol and opium. Mean- while he joined meetings of the Hashish Club at the Hétel Pimodan. He also indulged in the mundane habit of smoking pipe tobacco. If the poet’s pleasures were excessive, so were his expenses. In the two years since coming into his inheritance, he had spent half of his legacy.

As Baudelaire sold his land and investments to pay off debts, the fam- ily again intervened. His mother and the general took him to court. The spectacle of a young man squandering his inheritance had a predictable ending in the French legal system. A lawyer took charge of the poet's remaining assets. For the rest of his life, Baudelaire received small reg- ular payments from his remaining capital. The money was sufficient to

INTRODUCTION xxV

cover the expenses of a frugal single man, but Baudelaire’s lavish hab- its and disinclination to find regular employment left him perpetually in debt and often destitute. Suddenly deprived of affluence and inde- pendence, Baudelaire raged impotently. He denounced the general, reproached his mother, and threatened suicide. His brief youthful fling over, he sank into a state of financial anxiety and emotional instability that continued until his death.

While Bandelaire’s pecuniary humiliations unfolded, he enjoyed his first literary successes. His poems appeared in L’Artiste, first under a pseudonym, but eventually signed with his own name. Most of his publi- cations, however, were prose—literary criticism, fiction, and art reviews. His two major prose works of the period were long essays on the Salons of 1845 and 1846. Sponsored by the Académie des Beaux-Arts, the Salon was an annual official art exhibition, the largest and most prestigious event of its kind in Europe: The Grand Salon of the Louvre was hung from floor to ceiling with new work chosen by a jury of academy members. In his essays Baudelaire surveyed the state of French art. In particular, he championed the color and energy of Eugéne Delacroix. Published as individual pamphlets, these outspoken and informed critiques gained Baudelaire a reputation among the cultural elite.

In 1847 Baudelaire had the most important literary encounter of his life. He discovered the work of Edgar Allan Poe. His reaction was imme- diate, overpowering, and permanent. His relationship to Poe was not a case of literary enthusiasm or influence; it was something akin to posses- sion. He not only admired Poe’s work; he embraced the American writer as a kindred soul, an alter ego. Baudelaire claimed that in Poe's work he found subjects he had dreamed about and even actual sentences he had thought. He could recite Poe's story “The Black Cat” from memory. His identification was so profound that it is impossible to understand Baude- laire as a poet, critic, or person without reference to Poe. He considered Poe a sacred martyr for art and referred to him as “Saint Edgar.” In his morning devotions, Baudelaire prayed first to God and then to Poe.

The remainder of Baudelaire’s short life was given mainly to two great tasks—the composition, expansion, and refinement of Les Fleurs du mal and the translation of Poe’s complete prose works. He translated only

xxvi INTRODUCTION

a few poems since he felt they were beyond his imaginative powers. In Baudelaire’s posthumous Cupres completes, five of the twelve volumes were translations of Poe. American critics considered Poe a brilliant but decadent, even pathetic, figure. His reputation had been in decline since his untimely death. Baudelaire resolved to establish his genius. “Edgar Poe,” he wrote the critic Charles Sainte-Beuve, “who isn't much in Amer- ica, must become a great man in France.”

Baudelaire’s championship of his American frére was a generous, indeed noble, example of literary advocacy—not a scholar making a career by discovering an author, buta major poet sacrificing much of his creative energy to raise a fellow artist from obscurity. In the course of five years Baudelaire wrote three long essays on Poe. Although some pas- sages were lifted from American sources, these impassioned works stand as brilliant literary criticism; they are also self-revelatory, thinly veiled confessions of Baudelaire’s artistic aims and agonies. He saw Poe’s tragic life as a prophetic vision of his own future. “There are fatal destinies,” his first essay began, “... some men who bear the words ‘bad luck’ written in mysterious characters in the sinuous folds of their foreheads.”

The depiction of Poe as a cursed soul reflects Baudelaire’s own self- image. In portraying Poe, Baudelaire enlarged and refined an archetype that came to dominate Symbolist and Decadent literature—le poete maudit. The term itself had been coined by the French Romantic poet Alfred de Vigny. Later it would become the title for Paul Verlaine’s flamboyant col- lection of literary portraits, Les Poétes maudits (1884). The underlying con- cept, however, was first fully articulated by Baudelaire. He fashioned the image of the doomed artist too sensitive to survive in a mercenary world. Living outside bourgeois society, impoverished and unrecognized, the poéte maudit seeks self-destructive solace in drugs, alcohol, and sex, often surviving on the edge of madness. Baudelaire’s version of the archetype endures today in contemporary culture’s depiction not only of poets, but also jazz musicians, rock stars, painters, and movie actors. Poets often formulate general theories from their personal sorrows. Baudelaire championed the alluring but dubious notion that the surest sign of pro- found creativity is to be doomed.

In 1848 revolutionary unrest erupted across Europe. In France the

INTRODUCTION xxvii

people of Paris brought down the constitutional monarchy of Louis Philippe and established the Second Republic. (The new progressive republic soon collapsed into Napoleon III’s Second Empire.) As the mobs filled the streets of central Paris, Baudelaire appeared sporting arifle and shouting, “We must go shoot General Aupick.” Given Baudelaire’s gen- eral distaste for politics, this revolutionary episode has a farcical qual- ity. Aside from this brief and presumably sincere enthusiasm for radical reform, his views were mostly reactionary. “What can be more absurd than Progress?” he asked. “Belief in progress is the doctrine of idlers and Belgians.” Baudelaire had genuine compassion for the poor, but he had _ no confidence that revolution would save them (or any other group) from the sorrows of existence. He often saw the poor and unfortunate as mir- ror images of his own troubled self. Baudelaire’s sudden political engage- ment may have had more to do with the unhappy poet’s emotions than with his ideas—the intoxication of mob violence joined to a ferocious Oedipal resentment toward his stepfather. In his Intimate Journals, Baude- laire had no retrospective illusions about the nobility of his motives. They were: “Taste for vengeance. Natural pleasure in destruction.” Despite the distractions and difficulties of his Parisian life, Baude- laire deepened as a poet. Although he published mostly prose, he now recognized that verse was his true medium. “Above all,” he wrote his mother, “I want to be admired as a poet.” For him, poetry represented the supreme human art, an expression of creativity itself. In his jour- nals, he declared, “There are but three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the warrior, and the poet. To know, to kill, and to create.” Baudelaire’s revolutionary fervor was short-lived. When Louis- Napoleon Bonaparte seized power in 1851, the poet denounced the coup d’état and then declared himself “depoliticized.” To the degree he expressed later political sympathies, they were conservative, Catholic, and aristocratic. Despite his radical poetics and permissive personal mores, Baudelaire was old-fashioned, even reactionary, in everything else. Even his early affectations as a dandy, a well-dressed and idle urban aesthete, reflected the poet’s aristocratic aspirations more than any new bohemian liberty. Mis anthropy and misogyny also colored his opinions. Fueled by his own unhappiness, he saw human society as foul, selfish,

xxvili INTRODUCTION

and hypocritical. Poisoned by original sin, humanity was unredeem- able. He particularly detested the prophets of the French progressive tra- dition, Voltaire and Rousseau. It wasn’t just progressive ideas he objected to in art. Baudelaire maintained that introducing any political ideas compromised artistic integrity.

Although Baudelaire’s life has copious documentation in letters, journals, and literary works, as well as testimonies and memoirs by many friends, the genesis of his masterpiece, Les Fleurs du mal, remains murky. The earliest poem in the collection dates from around 1841. A few poems appeared in literary reviews and anthologies over the next few years. In 1851, he published eleven poems under the title “Les Limbes” (Limbo), which he briefly considered as a possible title for his book. Slowly the meticulously patterned collection took shape. In 1855 he gathered eigh- teen poems in the Reoue des Deux Mondes under a heading suggested by a friend: LES FLEURS DU MAL. That haunting title stuck. As Baudelaire assem- bled the poems, he sought to organize them in a way that gave the indi- vidual pieces a cumulative power and coherence.

in April 1857, two months before the publication of Les Fleurs du mal, General Aupick died. Baudelaire’s mother left Paris for a handsome house in Honfleur on the coast of Normandy. She had always been the central woman in his life. Now there was no rival for her love. He again had his “noor dear mother” entirely to himself, though ata considerable distance. As his long, heartfelt letters to her indicate, his mother was his lifelong confidante. He remained fixated in childlike dependence, both emo- tional and financial, looking to her to solve his perpetual problems. Never doubting her affection, he.constantly sought her approval and forgive- ness. He often suggested her love could be expressed by a bit of extra cash.

Meanwhile Baudelaire and Jeanne Duval had parted. Their early fer- vor cooled, and his financial problems undermined the security he had once offered her. The alcohol-fueled relationship deteriorated into vio- lent bickering. She had no regard for his uniprofitable artistic pursuits. She mocked him asa failure and even poisoned his cat. He beat her witha candlestick. Nonetheless, Baudelaire could not makea permanentbreak. He remained “bound like a convict to this chain.” He felt a guilty sense of duty to the only woman with whonr he had managed an extended

INTRODUCTION XXX

romantic relationship. Both of them now suffered from health problems, but Duival’s decline was more rapid. In 1859 his “Black Venus” suffered a paralytic stroke, probably from the syphilis that infected them both. He would support her meagerly but faithfully for the rest of his life. Baude- laire never had another intimate or enduring romantic relationship. His poverty, temperament, and reputation made a bourgeois marriage impossible. His other romantic infatuations never went beyond flirta- tions or brief (and probably platonic) affairs.

In 1857 Baudelaire published the first edition of Les Fleurs du mal. The volume appeared in an elegant format printed by Auguste Poulet- Malassis, who became a devoted friend and later provided financial assis- tance to the perpetually needy poet. Poulet-Malassis sought to revive the art of fine printing in France. His books displayed superb typography on excellent paper, often hand decorated. Determined to have the text published flawlessly, Baudelaire moved to rooms near his publisher. For months he read and corrected successive sets of proofs, inturiating Poulet-Malassis’s partner with the expense and delay. He agonized over the punctuation and typeface. “Remember,” he wrote Poulet-Malassis, underlining and capitalizing his words for emphasis, that “the pur- pose of punctuation is not only to indicate the meaning but the WAY IN WHICH IT SHOULD BE READ ALOUD.’ At the end of June 1857, the book finally appeared in an edition of 1,300 copies. Baudelaire dedicated the volume to Théophile Gautier, “the flawless poet” and “consummate magician of French letters.”

Baudelaire had little opportunity to celebrate the publication of his poems. Within weeks ofits appearance, the Ministry of the Interior filed a report declaring that the book was “an outrage to public morals” and “an offense to religious morals.” Censorship had become a timely issue. Earlier that year Gustave Flaubert had been indicted for immorality after his Madame Bovary had been serialized in Revue de Paris. After a dramatic trial, the novelist had been acquitted. Baudelaire now emerged as a vul- nerable target for the frustrated authorities. Le Figaro denounced Les Fleurs du mal as a book full of “all the putrescence of the human heart.” The Ministry of the Interior, eager to score a victory against what it con- sidered smut and blasphemy, brought the poet and his publisher to trial.

xxx INTRODUCTION

Baudelaire resolved to fight the charges. He maintained that his poems had depicted vice in a way that would be repellent to the reader. He also insisted that earlier authors had published work that was even more scandalous with impunity. He did not dispute the sexual content of the book, which was the explosive issue.

Without General Aupick’s political connections, Baudelaire’s mother was powerless to help him, and few of the poet's friends were inclined to appear on his behalf. The court ruled against Baudelaire. Six overtly sexual poems were condemned. Both the poetand his publisher received fines. Publicly disgraced, Baudelaire knew the scandal had darkened his reputation. The verdict did not suppress Baudelaire’s entire collection. Copies of Les Fleurs du mal were removed from sale, the offending verses excised, and. the expurgated books returned to stores. The scandal increased sales, but only modestly. Les Fleurs du mal had no commercial success in the poet's lifetime.

By early middle age Baudelaire was an incurably unhappy man. His penury, deteriorating health, romantic failures, and lack of recognition weighed on his somber personality. “What I suffer justin living,” he wrote his mother in 1861, “is inexpressible.” He broiled in disappointments and resentments. “I want to vent my anger in terrifying books. I want to turn the whole human race against me.” He claimed to be reconciled to his dis- torted reputation as the minor author of prurient poems and advocate of hashish and opium, but his superficial equanimity fooled no one. “I am very much at ease in my stigmatization,” he wrote Victor Hugo, “and I know that from now on, in whatever literature I radiate, Ishall remain amonster and a werewolf.” The language of his self-presentation is revelatory. His scandalous reputation is the excruciating but sanctifying stigmata of an aesthetic martyr, and it had awakened a dangerous monster inside him.

Baudelaire may have been depressed and tortured, but he was not inactive. Although he claimed to be supported only by his pride and “savage hatred of all mankind,” he wrote with the sustained dedication of an absolute artist. Nevertheless, he could not command the public read- ership necessary to gain either a major reputation or significant income. The second edition of Les Fleurs du mal (1860) earned little money, but it attracted a few critical advocates. Swinburne introduced Baudelaire to

INTRODUCTION Xxxi

English-language readers in along, carefully argued review that claimed Baudelaire was, with Hugo, Browning, and Tennyson, one of the four greatest living poets. A coterie of young admirers had started to form.

Meanwhile Baudelaire adapted Thomas De Quincey’s notorious Con- fessions of an English Opium-Eater (1822) into a pharmaceutical farrago, Les Paradis artificiels (1860; Artificial Paradises). The book combines a free trans- lation of excerpts from De Quincey with Baudelaire’s personal manifesto on drugs as aform of spiritual self-improvement. He describes the effects of opium and hashish and discusses the devious course of addiction— both subjects he knew well. Much of the book is a paean to the power of narcotics to “open up vast perspective, full of new revelations.” Although Artificial Paradises is arambling volume, it has had an enduring influence on the literature of drugs and psychedelic experience.

In a more respectable vein, Baudelaire wrote critical articles on his major contemporaries such as Hugo, Gautier, and Leconte de Lisle for Eugéne Crépet’s anthology, Les Poétes francais. Not only did this commis- sion produce fine essays, it also created a personal connection with the Crépet family. Years later the editor’s son, Jacques Crépet, helped initiate the revival of Baudelaire’s reputation.

In 1861 Baudelaire embarked on a futile and foolhardy project. He applied for membership in the Académie Francaise, the elite official organization charged with preserving the purity of the French lan- guage. Composed of forty eminent literati, “the immortals,” the French Academy elects new members only when an existing member resigns or dies. Although Baudelaire claimed to scorn official honors, his applica- tion reveals how much he craved elite recognition. He hoped his election would remove the public disgrace of his trial. As if his recent conviction of obscenity weren't already an insurmountable obstacle to his election, he chose to apply for the seat left vacant by the death of Henri Lacordaire, a Catholic priest. The application created a scandal. Many believed the shameless poet was seeking publicity. When Baudelaire tried to canvass votes, a few members met him with insincere politeness. The rest either refused to see him or treated him with disdain. On the advice of the kindly Sainte-Beuve, Baudelaire withdrew. His bid for honor had deliv- ered only anew humiliation.

XXxli INTRODUCTION

Amid all these persona! troubles, Baudelaire maintained the artis- tic clarity to experiment with a new form, the prose poem. The idea of the new form was simple but radical—to craft short prose passages that would communicate the frisson of lyric poetry..Baudelaire announced his dream of creating “a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and with- out rhyme, supple and agile enough to adapt to the lyrica] movements of the soul.” The notion of a prose poem was not original to Baudelaire. He borrowed the form from Aloysius Bertrand’s Gaspard de la nuit (1842). He would also have known the German poet Novalis’s influential Hymns to the Night (1800). Baudelaire, however, brought an intensity and contem- poraneity to the form, which he used to evoke provocative urban scenes. His approach popularized the form both in France and abroad. The prose poem would become part of his artistic legacy, especially through his impact on Rimbaud, whose Les IHluminations (1886) was the first mas- terpiece in the new genre.

The innovative project made a dramatic break from Baudelaire’s ear- lier poetry. Every poem in Les Fleurs du mal was rhymed and metrical. Nonetheless, Baudelaire saw the “little poems in prose” as a “pendant” or companion piece to Les Fleurs du mal. He intended to write one hun- dred pieces, the same perfect number that had governed the design of the first edition of Les Fleurs du mal. Like most projects from his final years, however, it was never finished. He wrote only fifty pieces, which were not collected until after his death. They are lesser works than the poems in verse, but, as he had hoped, they add imaginative context to Les Fleurs du mal, When they were published in 1869, they were given the generic title ' Petit poémes en prose (Little Poems in Prose). That timid description did not last long. His feverish views of the modern city were reissued in 1917 as Le Spleen de Paris.

Meanwhile Baudelaire worked intermittently on a private project, a confessional book to be called “Mon ‘coeur mis 4 nu”—“My Heart Laid Bare.” The title and the idea came from Poe, who had claimed that if any- one could write a book that told the naked truth about the human heart, it would revolutionize literature. For years Baudelaire filled notebooks with candid observations about himself and the world. He intended to publish his testament, but the work never went beyond a gathering of

INTRODUCTION xxxili

pensées, notes, and short fragments. Nonetheless, the notebooks burst with irreverent ideas and aggressive energy. Baudelaire ponders theol- ogy, love, power, and society, but he has little to say about poetry. He does, however, make many provocative remarks about his ideas of beauty. “I can scarcely-conceive,” he wrote, “a type of Beauty which has nothing to do with Sorrow.” Combined with other fragments, the work was pub- lished posthumously, under the more neutral title Journaux intimes (1887; Intimate Journals). The volume remains the most revelatory source for the poet’s spiritual, emotional, and imaginative inner life.

Baudelaire had suffered a small stroke iri 1860. A year later, symp- toms of his syphilis returned. He lived in constant pain and also expe- rienced’ brief bouts of disorientation. He expressed dark satisfaction in his decline. “I have cultivated my hysteria,” he wrote, “...I have felt the wind of the wing of madness pass over me.” Disease, drugs, and alcohol had-ruined his health—at forty he was already an old man. One acquaintance described him as “aged, faded, weighed down although still slim, an eccentric with white hair.” His other troubles increased. In 1862 Poulet-Malassis went bankrupt, which forced the publisher to flee to Belgium to avoid prison. Meanwhile La Presse, which had published twenty of Baudelaire’s prose poems, dropped him as a regular contrib- utor. The financial emergency forced the poet to sell all rights to his Poe translations, past and future, for two thousand francs. He then sold the rest of his work, including Les Fleurs du mal (which was actually owned by Poulet-Malassis), to another publisher for an equally small sum. Most of the money went to pay his debts.

In 1864, ina final attempt to secure financial independence and escape his Parisian creditors, Baudelaire moved to Brussels. He planned to give a lucrative series of lectures. He also hoped to secure a commercial pub- lisher who.would promote his works. Bourgeois and bureaucratic Brus- sels was not a city known for literary culture. The lectures proved badly paid and poorly attended. By the third event, the audience was so small that the depressed poet stopped in mid-lecture. Further talks were can- celed. The sponsors paid him only a fraction of the promised fee. His other project also failed; the publisher declined to meet with him.

Baudelaire hated Belgium, but he did not leave. He had nowhere

XXXIV INTRODUCTION

else to go, and he couldn't pay his hotel bills. He toyed with the idea of writing a devastating satire of Belgium, to be titled “Pauvre Belgique!” (Poor Belgium), but he was too ill and exhausted to pursue the notion. Poulet-Malassis provided some temporary help by publishing the cen- sored poems from Les Fleurs du mal, supplemented by some recent verses. The French prohibition against “les poémes condamnées” did not hold in Belgium. There was always demand for stylish erotica. Les Epaves (The Wreckage) was published in February 1866 in an edition of 260 copies. The slim volume was the last book Baudelaire was to see released before his death.

In March, while visiting the Church of Saint-Loup in Namur on a hol- iday with friends, the poet suffered a stroke that paralyzed his right side. He was placed in a convent hospital, but his fits of swearing so scandal- ized the sisters that he had to be moved to 2 hotel. His mother, seventy- three years old and infirm, came to Brussels with her maid to care for him. It soon became obvious he would never fully recover. By April he had lost the ability to speak coherently, though his mind remained lucid. His friends sadly noted that the master of language was now bereft of words. In June the poet was brought back to Paris arid placed in a hydro- therapeutic sanatorium in Chaillot. He lived another year, but his condi- tion slowly deteriorated. On his deathbed he requested the Catholic last

rites. He died in his mother’s arms on August 31, 1867. He was forty-six. |

III

To an unusual degree, Baudelaire’s reputation rests on a single work, Les Fleurs du mal. Most poets of similar stature have a larger body of verse illustrating the stages of their careers. Baudelaire channeled his creative energy into the three successive editions of Les Fleurs du mal. The volume contains all of his»mature verse, with the exception of his prose poems and a few minor works. From its first edition of 1857 to the posthumous volume of 1868, Les Fleurs du mal chronicles the development of the poet’s imagination. It is difficult to.follow that evolution, however, because the poems are arranged thematically, not chronologically. As the author revised the book, he inserted new poems among the existing ones. He

INTRODUCTION XXXV

considered the book's structure more important than documenting the stages of his own imaginative development.

Although Baudelaire meticulously planned the structure of Les Fleurs du mal, the size and scope of the final edition were the result of several historical accidents. Baudelaire had not originally written a large or inclusive book. He arranged the first edition of Les Fleurs du mal to contain exactly one hundred poems (not including his verse preface, “Au lec- teur”). He considered 100 (or 10 x 10) a golden number symbolizing per- , fection. Itis unlikely Baudelaire would have revised his elegant structure had not the government censor removed six poems. The author’s numer- ological design was thereby destroyed, and his masterpiece sullied. At first, he considered writing six new poems, but he soon envisioned the more ambitious scheme of integrating all of his new work into future edi- tions. Baudelaire spent the rest of his life expanding and rearranging Les Fleurs du mal. He died before the third edition was published; his literary executors made the final editorial decisions.

The history of the Les Fleurs du mal, therefore, was complicated, but it followed asimple course—each edition contained more poems. The first edition arranged its 100 poems in five thematic sections: “Spleen et Idéal”

, (Spleen and the Ideal), “Le Vin" (Wine), “Fleurs du ma!” (Flowers of Evil),

“Révolte” (Revolt), and “Mort” (Death). For the second edition in 1861, Baudelaire added a new section of eighteen descriptive urban poems, “Tableaux parisiens” (Parisian Scenes), and otherwise expanded the volume to 126 poems in total. The posthumous collection, subtitled Edi- tion définitive, contained 151 poems. The six-part structure remained, but the editors added a “supplement” at the end that included a dozen new poems from Les Epaves.

The problem remained, however, of Baudelaire’s six condemned poems—“Les Bijoux” (The Jewels), “Le Léthé,” “A celle qui est trop gaie” (To One Who Is.Too Cheerful), “Lesbos,” “Femmes damnées:-Delphine et Hippolyte” (The Damned Women: Delphine and Hippolyta), and “Les Métamorphoses du vampire” (The Metamorphoses of the Vampire). They could still not be included for legal reasons, so the “definitive” vol- ume lacked those striking works. With a bitter irony Baudelaire might have appreciated, the complete and definitive edition of his masterpiece

Ratt a

XXXVi INTRODUCTION

was neither complete nor defined according to his careful framework. Only im 1949 did French censorship law change so that a truly complete version of Les Fleurs du mal could be published—ninety-two years after the obscenity trial. The final version contains 158 poems. )

The title of Baudelaire’s collection is itself a microcosm of the poet's aesthetic. The phrase “les fleurs du mal” is evocative, contradictory, and allusive. “Flowers of evil” creates an image that is simultaneously beau- tiful and dangerous, pleasurable and corrupting. (In French the title phrase also carries. the meaning “the flowers of sickness.”) The title subverts the classical view that identifies the beautiful with the good; instead, it asserts there is a different kind of beauty associated with evil and sickness. The title is also sexually suggestive; the flower is the tradi- tional poetic image for budding sexuality. (The fourth section of Baude- laire’s collection, which is also called “Fleurs du mal,” deals with the destructive lure and dangerous consequences of sexual desire.) Using the term fleurs to refer to his verse, Baudelaire alludes to the Greek root of anthology, “a gathering of flowers.” The poet, therefore, positions his new collection as part of the classical tradition while simultaneously subvert- ing it with “du mal.” Unlike traditional collections of lyric verse, Les Fleurs du malis not a gathering of beautiful poetic flowers, but a bouquet of evil blossoms.

Alleditions of Les Fleurs du mal begin with the prefatory poem, “Au lec- teur” (To the Reader). Here Baudelaire follows a custom of introducing a book of poems with a verse dedication. In this case he does not address it toa particular individual, but to all future readers of the poem and book. Nothing in the tradition, however, prepares a reader for the author’s offensive, aggressive, and rudely intimate assault. In the opening stanza Baudelaire accuses the reader (and himself) of folly, error, avarice, and vice. He mocks their weak remorse for these sins. He compares their vice- ridden selves to lice-infested beggars. More accusations of depravity and pusillanimity continue in each stanza. The poem ends by personifying their ennui as an idle but malevolent demon: :

C'est ’Ennuil — ceil chargé d’un pleur involontaire, Il réve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.

INTRODUCTION xxxvil

Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat, — Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frére!

Boredom! Moist-eyed, he dreams, while pulling on a hookah pipe, of guillotine-cleft necks. You, reader, know this tender freak of freaks—:

hypocrite reader—mirror-man—my twin!

Significantly, the poem is written in the first-person plural; there is no distance between the author and the audience. Everyone is implicated in the collective depravity and damnation.

“Au lecteur” has become one of the most influential poems in.the modern canon. In these deliberately repulsive yet strangely seduc- tive verses, Baudelaire not only announces the troubling themes of his book; he-also offers a transgressive vision of human nature—weak, vicious, self-deceiving, irrational, and doomed.- Baudelaire’s dark worldview reflects his unorthodox and inverted Catholicism. He sees humanity as mired in original sin, but the suffering finds no redemp- tive savior. There is only_boredom, self-destructive vice, and longing for oblivion. Baudelaire’s accomplishment is to make this horrifying vision beautiful through the enchantment of language. In “Au lecteur” he violates traditional rules of poetic taste and decorum; he presents graphic images of death, decrepitude, and putrefaction in sonorous and brilliantly rhymed alexandrine lines. Moral transgression accom- panies the aesthetic violation: Satan, “Trismegistus,” rules the fallen world, and he leads humanity like puppets through sin toward death. The poem’s famous final line, “Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frere,” makes the reader complicit in both moral and aesthetic revolu- tion. The poéte maudit has called forth the lecteur maudit. The first flower of evil has bloomed and scattered its seeds.

There are few poems in which one can actually see the course of liter- ary history change: “Au lecteur” is one of them. In many ways the poem should not work. Baudelaire employs an elegant style to present a repug- nant view of humanity. He expresses shocking contemporary content in a controlled classical style. He perverts Catholic imagery to acknowledge

XXXVili INTRODUCTION

satanic power. He packs the poem with unpleasant imagery—an open sewer of human misery and depravity. What unifies the caustic com- bination is the commanding presence of Baudelaire’s speaker, a man characterized by alienation, anger, depression, and disgust for life. The persona, however, is not merely autobiographical; the speaker is also a literary creation. Baudelaire has distilled a tougher version of himself to narrate Les Fleurs du mal—more audacious,.intense, and determined than the harassed and vulnerable man one finds in his letters. Baude- laire’s tortured, amoral, and often sardonic persona became one of the models of the modern antihero. His descendants appear in thousands of subsequent stories, poems, play, and novels. It would be hard to imagine the novels of Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Jean-Paul Sartre, Jean Genet, or Michel Houellebecq without Baudelaire’s example.

“Spleen et Idéal,” which opens Les Fleurs du mal, is the longest and most diverse of the volume’s five sections. The eighty-five poems in this section make up more than half of the entire book. Although “Spleen et Idéal” begins Les Fleurs du mal, it is in many ways the heart of the collection, pre- senting nearly all of Baudelaire’s themes in memorable form. The sec- tion contains many poems that have achieved canonic status, not just in France but internationally, including “LAlbatros” (The Albatross), “Cor- respondances” (Correspondences), “Une Charogne” (A Carcass), “Chant d'automne” (Autumn Song), “L'Invitation au voyage” (The Invitation to the Voyage}, “A une madone” (To a Madonna}, “La Géante” (The Giantess), “Har- monie du soir” (The Harmony of Evening), and the four parts of “Spleen.”

The term “spleen” requires some explanation since the word in English no longer carries the meaning it did for Baudelaire. No term is more important in understanding Les Fleurs du mal, which may accurately be described as a poetic exploration of spleen. In French, spleen is an anglicism, but the original root is Greek. Greco-Roman doctors believed that the black bile secreted by the spleen produced melancholy, one of the four humors or temperaments of classical medicine. In French, spleen came to mean a depression or melancholy charactérized by guilt, ennui, isolation, and despair. In English, the term also suggested outbursts of splenetic anger. Spleen is the dominant mood of the Baudelairean persona in Les Fleurs du mal, not merely in the opening section, “Spleen et Idéal,”

INTRODUCTION xxXxix

but throughout the book. “I sought to express,” Baudelaire wrote his mother, “some of my sources of anger and melancholy.” This dark tem- perament has become so closely associated with Les Fleurs du mal that in French theterm is often called spleen baudelairien.

“Correspondances” deserves particular attention because it became one of the foundational texts of Symbolism. The poem propases that the sounds and images of nature create mysterious correspondence between the visible and invisible worlds. The conceptis not original to Baudelaire; it has its sourcein Plato and was acentral tenet in Emanuel Swedenborg’s mystical writings. (The eighteenth-century Swedish visionary claimed that God and the planets had revealed to him the secrets of the spiritual world.)‘Baudelaire also found this occult notion in Poe. “Imagination is an almost divine faculty,” Baudelaire wrote, “that perceives immediately and without philosophical methods the inner and secret relations of things, the correspondences, and the analogies.”

“Correspondances” creates the image of the world as a living temple, made up of a forest of symbols in which humanity wanders experienc- ing sights, sounds, and scents that suggest hidden connections. The poem presents amodern version of the neo-Platonic concept that physical reality is a projection behind which an ideal world waits, toward which we natu- rally aspire. No poem by Baudelaire had greater impact on literary history.

Although Baudelaire’s ideas and poetry inspired the Symbolist move- ment, he is not, strictly considered, himself a Symbolist. Instead he (with Poe) is the movement’s precursor and source. The term “Symbolist” was not even coined in relation to poetry until 1886, when Jean Moréas pub- lished the Symbolist manifesto for the movement in Le Figaro. (Before Moréas's influential article, Baudelaire and Verlaine were known as “Decadent” poets.) Symbolism came to be associated with a range of poetic styles that did not express ideas, emotions, or situations overtly, but instead communicated them indirectly by evoking them in the read- er’s mind. “Don’t paint the thing,” advised Mallarmé, “but the effect that it produces.” Since conventional exposition was avoided, poets relied on image, symbol, and the hypnotic spell of verbal music. Symbolists also avoided didacticism, especially moral or political exhortation. The object was to enchant the readers to unlock their imagination, memory,

xl INTRODUCTION

and emotions. Verlaine’s declaration, “Music above all things,” became the movement’s motto.

All of those Symbolist characteristics appear in Baudelaire’s poetry, but they are neither his exclusive nor dominant procedures. His sensi- bility is larger and more omnivorous. In terms of literary history, Baude- laire is the transitional figure from Romanticism to early Modernism in a period dominated by the Realist novel. Romanticism and Realism meet and struggle in his work. The young Baudelaire had been formed by Romanticism with its emphasis on personality, emotionalism, and sincerity expressed in bold and colorful style. Romanticism, Baude- laire observed, was primarily “a manner of feeling.” It was not, however, the way the adult Baudelaire felt about the world, himself, or poetry. He wanted to escape the hyperbolic emotionalism and Napoleonic obses- sions of French Romantic poetry. His poetic ideal was more controlled and intellectual. Yet he never escaped the visionary.impulse of the Romantic imagination. What tempered Baudelaire’s Romantic longings was his attraction to the Realist mode of Honoré de Balzac. In Balzac, he found a modern imagination that encompassed both the stylish and sor- did aspects of modern Paris, including its vast underworld of the poor and criminal classes. Baudelaire took the prose content of Realism and cast it into verse.

Although Baudelaire is not a Symbolist, certain poems in Les Fleurs du mal exemplify the ideals of the movement. “Harmonie du soir,” one of the most exquisite lyrics in the French language, mesmerizes the reader through the radical purity of-its lyric design; it is all verbal music and suggestive images. Baudelaire’s poems often have strong intellectual content; they bristle with opinions, observations, and arguments. “Har- monie du soir,” however, unfolds only through sensual imagery and emotion—sights, sounds, and scents all imbued with gentle sadness. The scene acquires additional resonance through religious images (censer, altar, blood) that suggest a mysterious sacrament of romantic sorréw. The poem is a pantoum, a Malayan form in which each line is repeated in a complex pattern to create an interlocking chain of sound and state- ment. The form was still new in French when Baudelaire employed it. The haunting melancholy of “Harmonie du soir” helped popularize the

pantoum across Western literature.

INTRODUCTION xli

A distinguishing feature of Baudelaire’s poetry is the rich texture of his lines. French style, in both prose and verse, has historically been characterized as clair, simple et logique (clear, simple and logical). These qualities were especially evident in French poetry of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Poets crafted lines of remarkable elegance, balance, and lucidity. By contrast, Baudelaire’s lines are more densely packed. They often contain words more typical of prose than the purified literary vocabulary of traditional French verse. Baudelaire shows less concern with the clarity and ease of his lines than with how much mean- ing he can concentrate into musical shape. In the process he created a new poetic style—richer, slower, less transparent than the work of his predecéssors. The poems are not obscure, but neither are they entirely clair or simple. The dense texture contains more associative meanings. A reader catches the general sense of the poem immediately, but it requires repeated readings to comprehend the full range of the associations. Con- sider the opening lines of the second “Spleen” poem:

Jai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.

Un gros meuble a tiroirs encombré de bilans, De vers, de billets doux, de procés, de romances, Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances,

Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau. More memories than if I'd lived a thousand years!

A massive chest of drawers crammed with lines of verse, court summonses, love letters, novels, balance sheets and locks of ample hair rolled up in old receipts

hides fewer secrets than my melancholy brain.

The rich texture and mixed diction give the lines a deliberate, authorita- tive, yet lyrical effect. This aspect of Baudelaire’s style had a great impact

‘on English-language poets. One sees his influence on poets as diverse

as T. $. Eliot, Robert Lowell, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Richard Wilbur, and Weldon Kees.

xlii INTRODUCTION

The “ideal” of “Spleen et Idéal” may be less obvious than the “spleen.” The Baudelairean ideal was not political or religious. He had no faith in political transformation or the redemptive power of Christianity. Like- wise, love promised an ideal it failed to deliver. “Love is the desire to pros- titute oneself,” he wrote. Baudelaire’s “ideal” was the “eternal clarity” of beauty. By beauty he did not mean something merely pretty or decorous. For him, beauty was both a visionary and sensual experience. Beauty was the intoxicating pleasure of perceiving the hidden order of the universe—either through nature or art. Once again Baudelaire borrows and refines this transcendent idea from Poe, who saw art as “the repro- duction of what the senses perceive in nature through the veil of the soul.” For Baudelaire, beauty represents the highest ideal of conscious- ness and the only true goal for art.

The later sections of Les Fleurs du mal are shorter and more unified than “Spleen et Idéal.” Each part augments and explores themes presented in the opening section. “Tableaux parisiens” consists of eighteen poems that were mostly written during Baron Haussmann’s renovation of Paris. The colossal urban renewal project built the modern Paris of wide boule- vards and spacious parks, but the architectural achievement came at the expense of destroying most of the medieval city and displacing much of the urban population. Baudelaire’s poems present the experience of the alienated and disenfranchised poor and elderly—the workers, beggars, prostitutes, infirm, and disabled. In the spirit of Balzac, Baudelaire pres- ents a realistic street-level view of the modern city.

Baudelaire believed that modernity in art could be achieved by using the city as subject matter. There could be no ambitious innova- tion in style or form without new content: new subject matter facili- tates artistic originality. In depicting Paris, the writer must go beyond “the spectacle of fashionable life” and include “the thousands of stray souls—criminals and kept women—who drift aboutin the underground of a great city.” The sheer originality of the urban poems may be hard for contemporary readers to appreciate since Baudelaire’s innovations have become conventional aspects of today’s poetry. In “Tableaux pari- siens,” however, Baudelaire invented the language and perspectives of the modern city.

INTRODUCTION xlili

"After the five “Le Vin” poems comes the book’s title section, “Fleurs du mal.” In the original edition, these twelve erotic poems appeared imme- diately after “Spleen et Idéal.” For the second edition, Baudelaire placed them later in the book. This section had been at the center of the obscen- ity trial; three parts of it—“Lesbos,” “Les Métamorphoses du vampire,” and the first “Femmes damnées”—had been banned from publication. Baudelaire had protested that the poems did not encdurage vice but con- demned it. In the second edition, he positioned his erotic poems more carefully. The shift in placement demonstrates the importance Baude- laire gave to the volume’s structure: where a poem appears influences how a reader interprets it. The “Fleurs du mal” sequence now appears only'after the poet has explored the destructive ecstasy of intoxication in “Le Vin.” To Baudelaire, ennui and spleen were the representative spiri- tual diseases of the modern age. Humanityseeksto cure them with dark fantasy and sensual pleasures—wine, drugs, sadism, and sex. The vices, however, provide only momentary respite from emotional pain or paral- ysis. The only true escape is death. |

The dozen poems in the “Fleurs du mal” section form a cycle that explores sexual desire and its consequences. The cycle begins and ends with short, dark poems—the sonnet “La Destruction” and “L’Amour et le Crane” (Love and the Skull), which describes a macabre engraving of Cupid sitting on a skull blowing bubbles. These bookends communi- cate that desire, decay, and death are the unifying themes of the cycle. The poems in “Fleurs du mal” show Baudelaire at his highest level of art- istry dealing with his most sensational subjects. “Une Martyre” (A Mar- tyr) describes a vicious sex murder in voyeuristic terms. “Lesbos” offers a melancholic sexual fantasy about Sappho’s island, a paean to erotic awakening. The two “Les Femmes damnées” (The Damned Women) poems present compassionate portraits of lesbianism in a society where such romances end tragically. “Les Métamorphoses du vampire” pres- ents a lubricious seductress who, once the sexual act is consummated, is revealed to be a rotted skeleton. “Un Voyage 4 Cythére” recounts a trip to Venus’s island of love, which proves to be an island of death; Cythera is now inhabited by carrion birds devouring dead men hanging from a gib- bet. The poems in “Fleurs du mal” are both deliberately disgusting and

xliv INTRODUCTION

lasciviously beautiful. This is Baudelaire’s hothouse of gorgeously exotic but evil flowers.

Baudelaire’s views on love and sex are dark, disturbing, and contra- dictory. Sex is a brief rapture after which one wakes in a chamber of hot- rors. Some of his statements on love are intriguing; most are repellent. “The sole and supreme pleasure of Love,” he claimed, “lies in the abso- tute knowledge of doing evil.” His declaration that “Love is the desire to prostitute oneself” is not surprising from someone who knew sexual love only through prostitutes and demimondaines. His fear and loathing ot erotic attachment reflected his own unhappy experiences. Baudelaire viewed sexual relations as a power struggle in which one party domi- nates the other. The best one can hope for in the sadomasochistic situ- ation isthat power might shift in one’s favor. In his notes for “My Heart Laid Bare,” he conflates sex and violence: “It would perhaps be pleasant to be alternately victim and executioner.” Sex is not the foundation of love or marriage, and itis never associated with the renewal of life in chil- dren. Itis rapture, regret, and laceration. In “La Destruction,” the demon of lust brings the speaker to ruin and damnation. Sexual desire has left the narrator wounded in filthy rags. Who writes such a poem? A young man who knows that he will diefrom syphilis. >

Yet Baudelaire is always the poet of contradiction. Wherever there is.

spleen, there is also the idéal. However doomed and disgusting the actual outcome of eroticlove, the dream of itis ecstatic and ennobling. Jorge Luis Borges’s exquisite line, “love, and the imminence of love, and intolerable remembering,” could have been composed to describe Baudelaire’s atti- tude. The imminence of love excited his gentlest emotions and highest ideals. In “L'Invitation au voyage,” for example, the speaker invites his beloved to an imaginary world shaped to the heart’s desire. Each stanza

ends in the blisstul refrain:

La, tout n'est qu’ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.

There will be nothing but beauty and leisure, harmony, calm and pleasure.

INTRODUCTION xlv

If the idea of romantic love excited his imagination, the bitter reality he found disgusted him. As the poet Pierre Emmanuel observed, “Erotic tenderness in Les Fleurs du mal is a ritual of idealization or of recollection; the sexual embrace precipitates degradation and oblivion."

The first four sections of Les Fleurs du mal present Baudelaire’s doomed vision of modern life—a perspective that would color French literature for the next century. Trapped in a fallen world, we are paralyzed by bore- dom and melancholy. We long for unreachable transcendent meaning. God exists but is indifferent to our suffering; the Devil rules our daily world. To feel alive we seek intoxication, voyeuristic violence, and sexual debauchery. These indulgences provide momentary oblivion, but they ultimatély corrupt us. There is no escape from our decline into death. What can we do in such a world? Baudelaire’s answer is to revolt.

“Révolte” is the shortest section of Les Fleurs du mal, consisting of only three poems; it is also the most outrageous and transgressive section. Baudelaire’s revolt is not against any temporal authority; it is an existen- tial rebellion against God. “Révolte” proclaims the poetry of blasphemy. When Les Fleurs du mal was prosecuted, the poems in “Révolte” were cited as offensive to religious morals, but they were not ultimately censored. Post-revolutionary France was inured to sacrilege and anti-religious satire, though Baudelaire’s poems pushed that tolerance to its limits. In “Le Reniement de saint Pierre” (Saint Peter’s Denial), he presents the Crucifixion with respectful compassion, but then congratulates Peter for denying Christ. (The poem implicitly celebrates Baudelaire’s elimi- nation of Christ and the Redemption from his personal cosmology.) In “Abel et Cain” (Abel and Cain), Baudelaire praises Cain for killing his own brother to protest God’s plan.

“Révolte” ends with the most notorious poem in the collection, “Les Litanies de Satan” (The Litanies of Satan). This sonorous chant unfolds for fifteen stanzas, each of which ends with the refrain “O Satan, prends pitiéde ma longue misére!” (Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!). Demonic parody is the method of satanic worship. Baudelaire models the refrain of his infernal prayers on the miserere nobis (“have mercy on us”) of Catho- lic liturgy. Baudelaire’s litany cast a spell on later literary Satanists such as Joris-Karl Huysmans and Aleister Crowley.

xlvi INTRODUCTION

The strange power of “Les Litanies de Satan” comes from its tor- tured sincerity. Genuine blasphemy, as T. S. Eliot observed in regard to Baudelaire, needs to be “genuine in spirit and not purely verbal... the product of partial belief.” In his rebellious and unorthodox way, Baudelaire believed in God and Satan. Seeing himself as irrecoverably flawed, he chose to embrace his own damnation. “There is in every man always,” Baudelaire maintained, “two simultaneous allegiances, one to God, the other to Satan.” Without abandoning his belief in God, he changed_his allegiance. His Satanism was not a literary-pose; it repre-

sented a genuine religious and existential rebellion against an indiffer- ’

ent God. Satanism offered a solution—however tragic and futile—to tHe intolerable human condition. As Eliot commented, “Damnation itself is an immediate form of salvation—of salvation from the ennui of mod- ern life.” Baudelaire revolted to make his damnation mean something beyond the sum of his own sins. Satanism was his existential leap to create a free and independent self in an absurd world. One of the central motifs of Les Fleurs du mal is Baudelaire’s perverse and sardonic delecta- tion of his own damnation.

“Révolte” unavoidably brings up Baudelaire’s strange and inverted Catholicism. It is impossible to understand him as a secular poet. He remained inside the Catholic worldview even as he violently tried to escape it. “Nothing upon the earth,” he wrote, “is interesting except religion.” There were “two.fundamental literary qualities,” he asserted, “supernaturalism and irony.” Both of those qualities insist that the surface of a thing is only part of its meaning. Baudelaire saw the world through a double lens where every material element had a supernatural correspondence. He reinvented his childhood religion in the same way— inverting it to reflect his own traumatic psychohistory with his stepia- ther, General Aupick. God the Father is rejected, and Satan the rebellious sinner is elevated.

“T am the spirit who denies,” says Goethe’s Mephistopheles. The symbols of Satanism are’ Christian images inverted; their power is not to redeem but to negate. Those reversals and rejections typify Bande- laire’s worldview, which is simultaneously Catholic, satanic, secular, and supernatural. Denying the Redemption, he proposes a Catholi-

INTRODUCTION xlvii

cism without Christ—a faith, therefore, that lacks the power to redeem humanity from original sin. As Erich Auerbach observed, Baudelaire is seeking “not grace of eternal beatitude but either nothingness, le Néant, or 4 kind of sensory fulfillment, the vision of a sterile but sensory artifici- ality.” Marcel Proust astutely described Les Fleurs du mal as “that sublime but sardonic book in which piety sneers, in which debauchery makes the sign of the cross; in which Satan is entrusted with the task of teaching the most profound theology.”

One of the most potent and enduring images of European art has been the danse macabre, or dance of death. In this allegorical image, rep- resentative members of the social classes—emperor, knight, priest, lover, peasant—join hands with Death and dance to the grave. Mortality is the universal human fate. The final section of Les Fleurs du mal, “La Mort,” is Baudelaire’s danse macabre. In the original edition, it consisted of only three poems, but in the 1861 reprinting, he expanded it to six—five son- nets followed by Baudelaire’s longest poem, “Le Voyage” (Voyaging). Four of,the sonnets presént.classic danse macabre tableaux, the deaths of representative types—lovers, artists, poets, and the poor. In a tragic and absurd world, the oblivion of death becomes a sort of secular salvation: “Tt is the open doorway to unknown Heavens.”

“Le Voyage” represents a more novel, ambitious, and inclusive enter- prise than the sonnets since it carries the heavy responsibility of fin- ishing the book. The poem begins in the child’s infatuation with maps, prints, and travel. The poem then introduces another representative assembly—a group of travelers who embark on a voyage, each driven by

g a different motivation. They experience the beauties, boredom, dan- ‘ gers, and discoveries of their journey, but on returning, they feel mostly 3 disappointment. Questioned about the journey, they report wonderful f) sights, but what impressed them most was universal folly and “Le specta- q cle ennuyeux de Vimmortal péché” (immortal sin—a rather boring sight). All

that awaits them now is a joyful final journey across the sea of shadows

3 toward the nothingness they desire. This summary does little justice a t Baudelaire’s magnificent music, imagery, and invention. He sought E:. te end his.great book with a masterpiece, and he succeeded. Among its q many splendors, “Le Voyage” astonishes the reader of Baudelaire’s dark

xviii INTRODUCTION

collection by concludirig the section titled “Death” with joyful radiance, a final vision of death as the ideal realized only in oblivion.

In “The Poetic Principle,” Poe maintained that a long poem could not exist because it was impossible for the reader or the poet to maintain the necessary “pleasurable elevation or excitement of the soul.” Beyond half an hour, Poe claimed, attention flags and “revulsion sets in.” Poe's essay was a cornerstone of Baudelaire’s own aesthetic. “Le Voyage” rep- resents Baudelaire’s power to sustain the lyric elevation and excitement to its maximum length. For thirty-five stanzas he maintains his radiant enchantment. He casts a spell at once sublime and intimate. Baudelaire never wrote a more exquisite poem. Its tragic music brings Les Fleurs du mal to its logical and inevitable conclusion.

IV

Baudelaire was one of the most important critics of the nineteenth cen- tury. His views—some original, some adapted from earlier authors— radically changed the course of European literature. He wrote extensively on literature and the visual arts. Although posterity views him as a poet, his contemporaries knew him mostly for his prose:and translations, except for the scandal of the Fleurs du mal obscenity trial.

Baudelaire is not a systematic ‘theorist. Even his best work is often digressive, disorganized, and repetitious. Yet his writing carries author- ity. His forceful prose style conveys the originality and perspicacity of his insights. “Always be a poet,” he wrote, “even in prose.” Although Baude- laire prized pure intellect in the creative process, he did not see criticism as a cool, analytical enterprise; he admired “the religious intoxication of the great critics.” Such spiritual inebriation informs his best essays, which pulse with emotional energy. Baudelaire explored poetics from the perspective of a practicing poet. He searched for clarity on the issues that obsessed him as an artist. As he explored his own creative dilemma, he articulated ideas that proved decisive to posterity.

The central idea of Baudelaire’s poetics is the autonomy of art. He insisted that literature ahd indeed all art has no specific moral pur- pose. He understood that his theory contradicted the popular opinion

INTRODUCTION xlix

that literature should have an ethical, religious, or political aim. “Most people assume,” he observed, “that the object of poetry is some kind of teaching; that it must now fortify conscience, now perfect manners, now, in sum, demonstrate something useful.” The didactic impulse, Baude- laire declared, was an aesthetic heresy. “Poetry,” he insisted, “... has no object but itself.” His conviction influenced the kinds of verse he wrote; for him, poetry was a lyric medium. As Valéry observed, Les Fleurs du mal was an unusual book for its era; it contained no historical poems, narra- tives, philosophical poems, or political opinions—a radical break from the norms of French Romanticism. Instead, it presented “charm, music, powerful abstract sensuality.”

Baudelaire’s theory of the autonomy of art is more nuanced than pos- terity’s simple “art for art’s sake” slogan. Although he believed true art had no moral aims, he recognized that individual works of art might nonetheless have moral consequences. In his notes for an abandoned preface to the second edition of Les Fleurs du mal, he struggled to respond to his criminal indictment for obscenity and blasphemy. Although the public scandal had wounded him, he professed indifference: “Some have told me these poems might do harm; I have not rejoiced at that. Others, good souls, that they might do good; and that has given me no regret.” Baudelaire doesn’t dispute.the moral impact of his work; he declares it doesn’t matter to him. The positive or negative moral consequences of a poem are immaterial to its artistic value. As Oscar Wilde wrote thirty years later in his preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray, “There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written, or badly writ- ten.” That view remains as controversial today as it was during legal pros- ecutions of both authors. Neither Baudelaire nor Wilde won society's

; -gupport or forgiveness for their aesthetic.

4 | Artists find some ideas more useful than others. Baudelaire’s belief in 4 the autonomy of art and his rejection of didacticism spoke powertiully to a ‘the best poets of thenext generation, who wanted to escape the traditional is . burden of addressing moral and political ideology, including the nation- ¥ ‘wlism that had obsessed the Romantic era. Artistic autonomy became an a ‘animating principle of the Symbolists as well as the Decadent, Aesthetic, q ‘and early Modernist movements. Although Baudelaire’s earliest follow-

7 FS

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Se ee

] INTRODUCTION

ers were French—first Verlaine, Rimbaud, and Mallarmé, then Valéry, Jules Laforgue, and Paul Claudel—his impact was international. Symbol- ism influenced a diverse cohort of poets, including W. B. Yeats, T. S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, Stefan George, Rainer Maria Rilke, Gabri- ele D’Annunzio, Eugenio Montale, Alexander Blok, Osip Mandelstam, Emile Verhaeren, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Antonio Machado.

Ifthe purpose of poetry is neither moral nor didactic, does the art have any goal beyond the excitation of the senses, emotions, and imagination? However memorable as a phrase, “art for art's sake” is a circular asser- tion. Is there anything at stake other than a self-contained microcosm of sensation? At the center of Baudelaire’s poetics is an emphatic response to this question. He recognized that narrow aestheticism encourages art that is merely decorative—mood painting in verse; it devolves into eva- nescent notions such as poésie pure (pure poetry) made of lovely sound and evocative images unattached to any exterior reality. Such aestheticism fosters a deliberately minor poetry. One might fault Baudelaire for many things, but never for minor aspirations.

. For Baudelaire, the goal of poetry is beauty, but beauty is not an endin itself. Through beauty, poetry brings the reader into a new relationship with reality. The experience of beauty changes consciousness; it allows one to perceive qualities and correspondences of things not apprehensi- ble in quotidian existence. There is an almost mystical sense of transcen- dent consciousness in Baudelaire’s notion of beauty. Artis so ecstatic that it momentarily annihilates the self, freeing human awareness from its ennuiand egotism. “In certain almost supernatural states of the soul,” he wrote, “the profundity of life reveals itself, completely in any spectacle, however ordinary it may be, upon which one gazes. It becomes its sym- bol.” The ecstasy of beauty, in Baudelaire’s poetics, creates a conscious- ness that apprehends the hidden correspondences between the physical and spiritual realms of existence.

Scholars debate whether Baudelaire’s theory of beauty was meant to be understood in literal or figurative terms. Perhaps here, as so often in his work, Baudelaire endorsed two contradictory ideas at once. He could never replace God in his worldview. (Why else did he need to “revolt” against divine order rather than merely ignore it?) He believed in a

INTRODUCTION li

numinous supernatural level of reality toward which art aspired. This conviction gave the revelations of beauty an objective quality; one actu- ally participates in something real, even if the experience is difficult to articulate in conceptual terms. To borrow Jacques Maritain’s haunting phrase, beauty represents “the splendor of the secrets of being radiating into intelligence.” From this perspective, beauty‘has redemptive power; it allows fallen humanity to participate briefly ina mysterious grace.

If Baudelaire’s theory is understood on a figurative level, however, then beauty offers only the forms of meaning, which the individual fills with subjective significance. This interpretation, which has found favor with Freudians and Postmodernists, uses ideas that the poet himself explored. Baudelaire understood the allure of altered states of consciousness from stimulants and narcotics. He analyzed the ways in which those substances change private perceptions of reality. Art offers a similar, though more edifying, escape from the burdens of existence. Art illuminates the imagination, memory, and sensory per- ception. In this figurative interpretation, however,‘ it does not tran- scend human consciousness by connecting it to a higher or ideal realm of existence.

Now comes the revolutionary twist in Baudelaire’s poetics that gave

F . his work its transfigurative impact on his early readers. If beauty is a

heightened form of perception that reveals the occult correspondences of reality, then such intense consciousness can also transform the per- ception of objects considered ugly or evil. Discovering the beauty in such abjects—disease, vice, intoxication, decay—reveals:the seéret purposes of their troubling éxistence. If art is to redeem human existence from

fF. purposelessness and ennui, then it must develop the capacity to accom-

modate the sordid and evil aspects of modern life. Art must develop, therefore, a poetics of evil.

Surely the darker aspects of Baudelaire’s poetics originated in his

F. own character. His melancholic temperament had always colored his

_ sense of the beautiful—witness his passionate, early attachment to Poe.

Baudelaire, however, developed- his personal perspective into a general

E theory. “Le beau est toujours bizarre,” he declared. “The beautiful is always E bizarre.” His poetic project became to find the beauty in evil and repel-

Ye

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lii INTRODUCTION

lent things. That ambition required the creation of a sensibility so capa- cious it could encompass both the grotesque and the sublime. A poetics of evil also demanded astyle that could present his bleak material and yet give pleasure. “Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas,” he wrote. “In repugnant objects we find charm.” In his notes for an unfinished preface to Les Fleurs du mal, he boasts of his achievement, “I have found it amus- ing, and the more pleasant because the task was more difficult, to extract beauty from Evil.”

Baudelaire's celebration of the beauty of evil marked a revolutionary moment in European aesthetics. He overturned conventional notions of beauty and offered for admiration “objects repugnant” in both sen- sory and moral terms. The repercussions of this idea continue to echo through art and literature. The contemporary notion of transgressive art traces its lineage back to Les Fleurs du mal. Before Baudelaire, poets had presented the grotesque, ugly, and evil in their work, but these subjects had not been deliberately connected to the beautiful or sublime; nor had poets declared these subjects beyond moral judgment. The aestheticiza- tion of evil became central to Baudelaire’s literary legacy, with enduring impact on fiction and drama as well as poetry.

Baudelaire’s poetics of evil, however, possesses its own ambiguity. As an isolated idea, it appears quite simple, but how should it be inter- preted in the larger context of his poetics? That integration poses a series of fundamental questions. Is the aestheticization of evil an end in itself, or must it be connected to a broader frame of values? Is the discovery of beauty of evil transgressive or redemptive? Does Baudelaire’s aesthetic revolution destroy the traditional notions of beauty, including its inher- ent relationship with the true and the good? Or does Baudelaire instead only broaden the aperture of beauty to reconcile all that exists to an ideal order?

The purpose of beauty in Baudelaire’s worldview is to provide a glimpse of ideal order. He affirmed Poe’s rapturous description of humanity's “wild effort” to reach beauty, “an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave...to attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone.” Baudelaire, how- ever, specifies that evil and sickness are also beautiful. The contradic-

mi.) 5

INTRODUCTION liii

tion seems irreconcilable until one remembers the poet's obsession with original sin and the fallen nature of humanity.

Baudelaire saw an essential duplicity in human nature, with its “simultaneous allegiances” to both God and Satan. His poetics sought to reconcile their contradictory claims. In this synthesis, his vision rep- resents a secularization of the Christian notion that everything that exists, including evil, serves a divine purpose. Baudelaire relocates the theological concept from God to humanity. Since his poetics is human, itmust reflect the duality of fallen humanity, half spirit and half animal. The individual exists in a perpetual tension between the two antithetical forces. “Invocation of God, or Spirituality, is a desire to climb higher,” he wrote in his journals, “that of Satan or animality is delight in descent.” Baudelaire did not conceive of one force without the other; neither was sufficient by itself to encompass reality.

For Baudelaire, beauty exists in an endless dialectic between the spir- itual and animalistic elements of human nature. The energy of that dia- lectic animates Baudelaire’s work. It also explains why his poetry is so difficult to interpret; it does not present static insights, but a dynamic relationship between contradictory forces. He believes that art needs to embody and express both the divine and demonic sides of human nature without entirely separating them.

The profound ambition and originality of Baudelaire’s poetic vision

4 suggests why Les Fleurs du mal has exercised such powerful fascina-

tion over posterity. In its design and execution, the book embodies the author's transformative aesthetic. Individually his poems are remark- eble lyric works, animated by the author’s musical genius and emotional candor; dozens of the poems live as independent works in anthologies

& and textbooks. Read together in Baudelaire’s carefully arranged collec- ¢ tion, however, they present the complexity and contradictions of the F human condition. They tremble with the pleasures, sorrows, and angers a of his foreshortened life. Baudelaire did not seek to go beyond good and 4 evil; he strove to see both clearly as part of the dialectic of reality. He F understood the power of ambiguity to express the double nature of the

®. human soul.

In the final lines of “Le Voyage,” Baudelaire brings Les Fleurs du mal

liv INTRODUCTION

to its visionary conclusion. Even on the final journey toward death, the poet rejoices in the “ecstatic prescience” of being fully alive, open to the

mysterious beauty of mortal existence:

Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brile le cerveau, Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu’importe? Au fond del'Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau!

Our minds are burning, and we want to go into the magnitude of Heaven or Hell, to fathom the unknown, to find what's new.

Dana Gioia

sonoma County &

Los Angeles, California November 2020

A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION

All of the poems in Les Fleurs du mal are formal. One might expect the great rebel poet to have been the inventor of verse libre (free verse), but the poems in this volume emphatically establish that Baudelaire was not only a formalist but a virtuoso formalist. (He collected his unmet- rical and non-rhyming poetry in a separate volume of prose poems, Le Spleen de Paris.) There are many English translations of Les Fleurs du mal. 1 will not comment on them other than to say that, since the incantatory effect of meter and rhyme are essential to Baudelaire’s aesthetic, and since form and content are inseparable, I felt it was imperative to pre- serve the full formality of the originals by translating them into metrical and rhyming poems.

The most prevalent meter in Les Fleurs du malis the French alexandrine, a line of twelve syllables in which syllabic patterns are artfully arranged around a caesura or caesurae. In every instance I have rendered Baude- laire's French syllabics as English accentual-syllabics. That is, rather than just considering syllable count, I have taken word stress into con- sideration and introduced iambs (units of two syllables, unstressed and then stressed), the most common meter in English. In translating alexan- drines, [at times shorten the line to a pentameter (ten or eleven syllables), and at times use our English hexameter (twelve or thirteen syllables). Not all of Baudelaire’s poems are in alexandrines. He is a master of shorter, lyric meters as well. For those poems, Ishortened my linesinanattemptto replicate their various syllabic lengths with accentual-syllabic dimeters, trimeters, arid tetrameters. Since it is easier to rhyme in French than in English, I decided not to go for true rhymes in my translations, but a mix- ture of true and off rhymes that would replicate the original schemes. The license of off-rhyming allowed me to avoid contorting syntax in order to

lvi A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION

achieve true rhymes. Furthermore, English has a far larger vocabulary than French. Rather than translate each French word with the same English word each time it recurs, I have, partly out of formal consider- ations and partly in the interest of nuance, allowed myself to use the full breadth of the English lexicon. I also strove to give readers a Baudelaire who, though clearly still a writer of the nineteenth century, speaks with- out poetic inversions and diction in our contemporary idiom. Above all, my intention with these translations is to replicate in English the almost magical effect of the originals and to render beautiful in English Baude- laire’s nontraditional beauties—disease, vice, intoxication, and decay.

The publication history of Les Fleurs du mal is complicated. I will sum- marize it here and explain how I have presented the poems in it. The first edition (1857) consisted of one hundred poems, in addition to the pret- atory poem, “To the Reader.” In that same year, after an obscenity trial, six of the poems were banned: “The Jewels” (21x), “Lethe” (31x), “To One Who Is Too Cheerful” (43x), “Lesbos” (110x), “The Damned Women: Del- phine and Hippolyta” (110xx), and “The Metamorphoses of the Vampire” (115x). Baudelaire subsequently made minor revisions to the poems in the original edition and composed thirty-five new ones. He published this book as Les Fleurs du mal (without the banned poems) in 1861. This edition has come to be regarded as standard by scholars, and itis the one I use as the basis for my translations. However, I have inserted the banned poems (only removed from the ban by a legal decision in 1949) in the posi- tions they occupied in the original 1857 edition.

I regard the translator as a medium, a vessel to be possessed by the original author’s spirit. The months I spent summoning and submit- ting to Baudelaire (the months of March, April, May, and June of 2020, as the COVID-19 pandemic raged) were intense and exhausting. As the levels of infection surged around me, I worked on this bouquet of “sickly flowers.” So strong is Baudelaire’s personality, that he will never be fully

exorcised from me. I am grateful for that.

Aaron Poochigian New York City

November 2020

The

Flowers of Evil

TO A FLAWLESS POET, CONSUMMATE MAGICIAN OF FRENCH LETTERS

AND MY MUCH LOVED AND HIGHLY ESTEEMED TEACHER AND FRIEND THEOPHILE GAUTIER,”

WITH FEELINGS OF DEEPEST HUMILITY, I DEDICATE

THESE SICKLY FLOWERS.

-™~

C.B.

To the Reader

For all of us, greed, folly, error, vice

exhaust the body and obsess the soul,

and we keep feeding our congenial

remorse the same way vagrants nurse their lice.

Our sins are stubborn; our repentance, weak. When we confess, we ask high premiums. Assuming cheap tears will expunge our crimes, we gladly walk the same old muddy track.

Thrice-potent Satan,’ cushioned on perdition, lulls our enchanted minds incessantly.

A perfect alchemist, he boils away

the valuable ore of our volition.

The Devil guides us like a puppet master. Disgusting objects please us very well.

Each day we take another step toward Hell, unflinching, through a putrid lack of luster.

In just the way that some broke debauchee kisses and nips an old whore’s martyred tit, we steal, in passing, off-limits delight

and squeeze it, like a seasoned orange, dry.

The ranks of demons reveling in our brains, like multitudes of maggots, swarm and seethe, and Death, invisible river, when we breathe, descends into our lungs and softly keens.

Why haven't arson, poison, rape, the knife embroidered their enticing images

= - pee = —__-- = a — — =

. x = i — = = ot ———————— ee -_—-

6 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

into our sad lives’ tedious tapestries? Sadly, our spirits don’t have nerve enough.

There among all] the jackals, panthers, mutts, monkeys and vultures, scorpions and snakes, those howling, yelping, grunting flocks and packs, that infamous menagerie of our rots,

there’s one most ugly, false and dirty birth! Though hardly moving, uttering no grand sound, he'd gladly make a shambles of this land

and, yawning, swallow the entire earth:

Boredom! Moist-eyed, he dreams, while pulling on a hookah pipe, of guillotine-cleft necks.

You, reader, know this tender freak of freaks— hypocrite reader—mirror-man—my twin!

1 Benediction

Whenever, by some holy proclamation, the Poet is born into this tedious sphere, his cussing mother, full of indignation, holds up her fists to God (who pities her):

“Dammit! I wish that I had nursed a mess

of vipers rather than have spawned that runt Cursed be the night of evanescent joys

when he was thrust in me as punishment.

Since, from all womankind, you lit on me to cause my shamefaced husband so much woe, and I can’t chuck this warped monstrosity

into the fireplace like a billet-doux,

I'll make the hatred that you heap on me redound upon the agent of your doom. Yes, I'll so twist this miserable tree

! that its repulsive buds won't ever bloom!”

She swallows thus the foaming spit of spite and, ignorant of Heaven's larger scheme, constructs a pyre in the infernal pit

and consecrates it to maternal crime.

But, with an unseen angel as protector,

the outcast child drinks in the wine-like light and finds ambrosia and vermilion nectar , in all that he is given to drink and eat.

He sings ecstatically trom Calvary, plays with the winds, discourses with the clouds.

His journey’s guardian spirit loves to see

him happy as a songbird in the woods.

— Za =r = = —__ — 4 —=—_ _

10 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL a: , me. SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL ll

The people he would hold dear fear to love him “Blessings on you, my Lord, who send us pain

3 ee

or, confident in his naivete, ™. ~—sstoccure, divinely, our impurities—

look for a way to wring a scream out of him. = = abalm that helps the stalwart best sustain |

They try out every sort of savagery. =; the potency of holy ecstasies! ! Bey.’

They mix ash in or grossly hack and spit | fe = [knowthat you preparea special spot

on bread and wine intended for his mouth. ae tor poets up there in the holy zones

All he has touched those hy pocrites throw out. They chide their feet for walking in his path.

His wife keeps blabbing in the squares and quads: | “Well, since he thinks I’m worthy ofa cult,

I'll act like one of the barbaric gods

and tell him that I want my image gilt.

Yes, I'll get drunk on genuflections, wine, and sacrifices, incense, myrrh and nard, all so that, laughing at him, Ican own

the worship that he ought to give the Lord.

When I get bored with this impious show,

I'll lay my bold frail hands on him and start ripping, with nails like those the Harpies grow, a path the whole way inward to his heart.

I'll tear that heart, as if it were ared

and trembling baby bird, out of his chest, then cruelly drop it in the dirt to feed whichever vicious beast I like the most.”

The pious Poet raises his serene

hands heavenward toward arefulgent throne, and glamorous flashes from his spirit screen from him how nasty everyone has been:

and you will call me to an infinite party with Dominations, Virtues, Thrones.”

I know our one nobility is pain,

and neither earth nor Hell can make it worse. What's more, to plait my transcendental crown, I need to tax time and the universe.

But all Palmyra’s lost antiquities’—

the precious ores, the pearls out of the sea— though you yourself arrange them, can't surpass this crown of ever-dazzling clarity,

since it is made of perfect purity,

2 holy metal from the primal blaze.

The eyes of man, majestic though they be, are its obscure, sad mirror images.”

2 TheAlbatross

Often, for fun, the sailors ona ship catch albatrosses, big seabirds, who trail

: languorously, for the entire trip,

some vessel sailing on the ocean swell.

Soon as the crew has caught him on the deck, y this despot of the sky, bereft of pride,

+r Be, a ge

f

"ky : xl i

12 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL f

*

lets his expansive white wings dangle, like a pair of oars, clumsily at his side.

The feathered traveler is alame and weak joke now who had been beautiful before. One sailor holds a pipe up to his beak;

another limps to mock the crippled flier.

The Poet is like this royal of the clouds

who rides on storms and scorns all archery: once he is exiled to the earth, shrill crowds abuse him, and his giant wings are in the way.

3 Elevation

Over the ponds and over the ravines,

over the mountains, forests, clouds and seas, beyond the sun, beyond ethereal space, beyond the starry hemispheres’ confines,

you fly, my spirit, with agility

and, like a good swimmer who loves the tide, plow through immeasurable amplitude with an ineffable and virile joy.

Fly far away from this depressing stink and purify yourself in upper air. Imbibe the holy fire that fills the clear regions, as if it were a heavenly drink.

Happy is he who vigorously soars

beyond the boredom and the vast distress

so burdensome to our befuddled race

and dashes into those serene, bright spheres.

wht a Pa

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

a ‘fi Happy is he whose lark-like intellect wings into the vault of morning, who ascends

_ above this life and freely understands «the language of the flowers and silent things.

i 4 Correspondences

¥. Nature, atemple in which porticoes

aq are growing, gives at times confounding talks. The figurative groves through which man walks look back at him with understanding eyes.

Hues, sounds and perfumes discombobulate Wes: = the senses just as far-off echoes fuse

: | " into a deep and hazy synthesis

a - Vast as the light of day and dark of night.

There are perfumes fresh as a baby’s skin, Sweet as an oboe’s skirl and green as grass, while others are corrupt, imperious

e. and capable of infinite expanses, . like ambergris, musk, incense, benjamin, which sing the rapture of the soul and senses.

#3 5 love recalling those antique, nude times...

i love recalling those antique, nude times

a when Phoebus’ gilded statues with his beams. J Then men and women played at games of speed # and no one wasacheater ora prude.

, Yes, with the loving sunlight on their loins,

j they exercised their excellent machines.

13

14 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL * Back then prolific Cybele’ did not

find all her sons so burdensome a weight,

but, like a she-wolf brimming with compassion, fed, from her dark brown nipples, all creation. Like fruit without impurities or blots

whose smooth but firm rinds begged for little bites, man, a refined, robust and mighty thing,

proudly exhibited what made him king. .

Today, though, when the Poet would assess such primal grandeurs in the nakedness

of man- and womankind, he feels a chill despondency well up and grip his soul.

He meets with mournful and obscene tableaux. O monstrous figures crying out for clothes!

O torsos suitable for travesties!

O bodies warped or morbidly obese

which the serene, grim god of Usefulness swaddles like infant flesh in clothes of brass! What of the tallow-pallid females whom indulgence eats and feeds? And what of them, the virgins, heirs to all their mothers’ sins?

Pregnancy makes a hideous difference!

We moderns do have, in our time, it’s true, some charms the ancient peoples never knew, like faces gnawed away by syphilis

and beauties, one might say, of listlessness, but these inventions of a latter muse

can’t ever make such invalids refuse

tribute to sacred Youth whose pleasing face

is simple and untroubled and whose eyes

are bright and bracing as a flowing stream. Youth pours on all things music and perfume and warm vitality insouciantly,

like birds and clear skies, flowers and the sea.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

6 The Beacons

Rubens,’ sloth-garden, river of oblivion,

pillow where young flesh never ends up making love but where the primacy of life flows on and on

like waves in seas and breezes in the big Above.

Leonardo, deep and solemn looking-glass

(: where, in the shadows of the glaciers and the pines FE - framing the countryside, there are mysterious

f ~—_ and winsome angels wearing irresistible grins.

Rembrandt, sad hospital with murmuring corridors -

and one immense crucifix fastened to the wall,

a place where prayers ascend in filth and breathe through tears and winter sunlight passes brusquely down the hall.

' Michelangelo, vague place where Hercules

; mingles with Jesus Christ, and dead men’s mighty shades

rise from the earth, stand stiffly in the twilight haze

and, pointing with their fingers, tear their funeral shrouds.

A raging boxer with the brashness of afaun,

~ you showed us there is beauty in vulgarians;

O great heart filled with pride, O sickly, sallow man, Puget, you were the outlaws’ melancholy prince.

. ° i> ce ane <8 a . =. a dated pet ih al hdl Dts 2 “a3 i baa ' ae et ile! Ee iad . - oa — = . hh ; am tT eas ae is Ee ee . hey aan. Bes of ges So , : me 1 La i ae ae el - ee ee oe SN AMET BM a ste et We vine erry ey ee wi Ms ° .. A cas Sols a spell . ame ; ot del “4% BA Ge Ee ST io : at

Watteau,’ a carnival where many famous hearts Pe . go flitting here and there like butterflies ablaze, & whileinan airy room achandelier imparts

' insanity to dancers spinning on their toes.

Goya, nightmare full of things unknown and wicked, - of fetuses sautéed for midnight witches’ revels,

4 of hags in front of mirrors and children wholly naked q who dress themselves most carefully to lead on devils.

15

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16 THE FLOWERS OF FYIL

Delacroix, lake of blood where evil seraphim live in the shade of ever-flourishing fir trees, where curious fanfares fade away into the gloom and disappear, like one of Weber's stifled sighs.’

Lamentations, maledictions, cries of hate

. and ecstasy, entreaties, sobs and hymns of praise

are sounds with which a thousand mazes resonate.

They are a holy opiate for the human race!

They are the watchword ofa thousand sentinels,

an order that a thousand speaking horns have brayed; they are the beacon on a thousand citadels,

the shout of hunters lost inside an endless wood.

Without a doubt, Lord God, this is the most sublime assurance we can give you we are of some good—

that this impassioned sob rolls on and on through time and dies out on the shore of your infinitude.

7 The Sick Muse

Poor muse, the sun is up. What’s wrong with you? Your eyes are full of what you dreamt last night. Isee, reflected in your present hue,

cold, taciturn insanity and fright.

Have the green succubus and crimson fiend emptied on you their urns of love and dread? Has Nightmare’s impish and despotic hand plunged you into Minturnae’s famous mud?"

I pray your breast, fragrant with healthiness, constantly be the home of fine thoughts; may your Christian blood flow just as strictly as

i the measured music of an ancient ode

“7 over which Phoebus, lord of melody, B presides, and also Pan, the harvest god."

a 8 The Muse for Sale

f ty

m.: Omiuse of mine, you love rich palaces,

4 but; when all January whips its wind a through drifts and twilight boredom, will you find , ) y. some half-burnt sticks to warm your purple toes?

4 When moonbeams struggle through your windowpanes, Pe wilfyour blue shoulders find their former tint?

4 Knowing your throat is dry, your money spent,

q will you change coffered ceilings into coins?

| 4 To earn your daily bread you have to swing

a the censer like an altar boy and sing

4 those holy hymns in which you don't believe,

f _ or vend your charms to eyes that don’t perceive f your tear-stained laughter—an emaciate fraud

a who somehow pleasures the splenetic crowd.

4

f, 9 The Bad Monk

q Long ago cloisters had the sacred Truth

q of Holy Scripture painted on their walls.

4 These pictures warmed the hearts of men of faith F - and eased the chill inside their stringent cells.

q Back when the Word of Christ was prosperous, q more than one famous monk, unknown today,

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

‘i |

| /

oe |,

| ,

il 18 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

setting his easel in a charnel house, glorified death ina straightforward way—

my soul’s the tomb in which I live and walk forever on and on, bad eremite. ‘No pictures cheer this miserable retreat.

O lazy monk! When will 1 learn to make what my hands write and what my eyes adore

out of the living vista of despair?

10 The Fiend

My youth was nothing but a dark storm, shot through, now and then, by brilliant bursts of sun. Thunder and flooding worked such total ruin that ripe fruit’s tough to come by in my plot.

Here in my fall, my mental harvesttime, Thave to rake and shovel to regain bits of the sodden soil in which the rain

dug holes, each one as spacious as a tomb.

who can say if the flowers of which I dream will find in dirt washed like an ocean shore

the mystic nurture that would make them bloom?—

The pain! The pain! Time eats our lives. What's more: a secret Fiend, our hearts’ devourer, grows stronger by feeding on the blood we lose.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

11 Bad Luck

You'll need a lot of initiative

to lift that great weight, Sisyphus. However much one works for success, Art takes time and Life is brief.

My heart beats like a muffled drum

: that leadsa funerary march

far from the famed tombs near the church

to the graveyard where no mourners come—

but, deep in mantle, gems are dozing | in uncollected obscurity out of the reach of pick and spade,

andthe sweetest flowers are releasing

their secret perfume reluctantly in the remotest solitude.

12 The Past Life

I lived for years beneath a vast arcade

which ocean suns lit with a thousand hues.

At dusk the columns—tall, straight, sumptuous— transformed the scene into a grotto made

of basalt. Rolling mirrors of the skies, the waves mixed, in a solemn, mystic way, their opulent, all-powerful harmony

with sunset hues reflected in my eyes.

I lived there in voluptuary ease, amid the heaven and sea, in gorgeousness, and naked slaves, breathing exotic scent,

19

20 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL . £

waved palm leaves up and down to cool my brow. They had one putpose only: to augment the mournful secret that had laid me low.

13 Traveling Gypsies’

The fire-eyed tribe of prophets left last night.

Some had their kids strapped to their backs, while others fed powerful infant famishment a mother’s

opulence from a loose and dangling tit.

The men now walk with gleaming weaponry alongside wagons loaded with their kin. Their eyes, eyes rendered heavy by a wan regret for lost illusions, scan the sky.

The cricket in his sandy solitude, seeing them passing, plays a louder tune. Cybele, doting, makes the trees more green,

makes rock jet water and the desert bloom before these travelers for whom, like home, the coming darkness'’s dominion opens wide.

14 Manandthe Sea

Free man, you will forever love high seas. They are your mirror; you can see yourself tossed in the endless tossing of a gulf. Your soul is no less bitter an abyss.

You like to dive to the reflection’s core. Your eyes and arms embrace it, and the cry

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

of its unmanageable misery distracts your heart, sometimes, from its own roar.

You both are shadowed and mysterious:

man, none have plumbed your void the whole way through; O sea, who sees the wealth inside of you?

You two prefer to keep your secrets close.

Yet pitilessly for unnumbered eons you have attacked each other, so do both

' of you delightin homicide and death,

O timeless warriors, O ruthless twins!

15 Don Juan in Hell’

a When Don Juan tumbled to the nether flood

and gave Charon the ferryman’ his fare, aman fierce as Antisthenes,’ asad beggar, laid vengeful hands on either oar,

and women with their robes undone, breasts showing, convulsed beneath the black sky overhead

and skulked behind him witha long, loud lowing

like cows soon to be slaughtered to some god.

Sganarelle, laughing, sought what he was owed while, with a trembling finger, Don Luis’ revealed to all the shore-wandering dead

E. the son who'd mocked his gray senility.

Beside the traitor who was once her man, Elvira’ shook with grief and, virtuous, asked for a last smile, one that had the shine

s; and sweetness of his erstwhile promises.

21

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F 22 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

While, stiff and armed with steel, aman of stone stood at the helm and cleaved the dusky tide,

Juan, leaning on his sword and looking on

the wake behind them, never deigned to look aside.

16 Punishment for Pride

Some years back when Theology was in full bloom and flourishing with utmost energy and vim,

a famous doctor of religion, itis said,

since he had salvaged souls that had been mostly dead and roused them from the depths of lightless lethargy, went on to thrust himself toward sacred ecstasy, seeking by mystic pathways, to himself unknown,

a state pure souls alone were able to attain.

Like someone who had climbed too high and was afraid, he cried out in the raptures of satanic pride:

“Q little Jesus, how I have exalted youl

Butif 1 chose to lay your helpless body low,

I'd mix disdain in with your all-too-sacred state

and leave you merely an outrageous neonate.” |

Suddenly his intelligence was cracked in two.

His solar brilliance was concealed in weeds of woe. Utter disorder rolled into the gifted mind

that once had been a precious temple where, enshrined beneath illustrious ceilings, he had reigned supreme. Now speechlessness and night set up their camp in him, as if he were a vault to which the key was lost. Henceforth he walked the city like an idle beast

and, when he passed through gardens without fathoming the things he saw, as blind to winter as to spring,

he was as negligible as a broken tool,

and children jeered at him as if he were a fool.

iy

SPLEEN AND THE [DEAL 23

#17 Beauty

Men, like 2 stone-dream, I am beautiful. My breasts, which bruise hand after hand, are made to give the poets an inhibited

a love that, like matter, is perennial.

gee. Likean unfathomed sphinx, Irule the sky sand make my heart of snow as white as swans.

fF: [hate excitement that displaces lines.

1 know no laughter and I never cry. Before the grandiose poses that my body strikes with a fierce and monumental air,

poets will waste their days in serious study,

because I have, to keep my lovers close,

& pure mirrorsin which all is lovelier:

my eyes, eyes with eternal limpidness.

18 The Ideal

The various charms of trivial portrayals

in worn vignettes, works of passé design— the feet in brogues, the fingers clacking zills— never will fascinate a heart like mine.

Let Paul Gavarni, artist of chlorosis,

keep all his prattling invalids, his pale

paragons, since among such bloodless roses

I never find my rubicund ideal.

What does my heart, my Hell-deep heart, demand? It's you, Lady Macbeth, a killing mind,

= astorm-born dream of Aeschylus, or you,

mee a gd ee er oe ea

tet, fat x wee Se Oa Oe Ca ee a ee a ee,

24 THE FLOWERS OF, VIL

great Night, offspring of Michelangelo, who calmly twist, in an eccentric pose, flanks fashioned to be fed to Titans’ maws!’

19 The Giantess

Back when prolific Nature birthed large-size progeny daily, it would have been fun

to live beside some girlish giantess

like a luxurious cat beside a queen

and watch her body blossom with her soul

as she enjoyed her frightful exercise

and fathom if she felt a loving zeal

from the vague moisture swimming in her eyes,

to wander her colossal form at ease and mount the slopes of her enormous knees, and, in the summer, when the harsh sun laid ) f her out, lethargic, over her estate, to sleep casually in a vast breast’s shade like a quaint village at a mountain's foot.

20 The Mask

An Allegorical Statue in the Style of the Renaissance

For Ernest Christophe, Sculptor

Let us admire this Tuscan masterpiece: Two sisters, Elegance and Strength, present a cascade of the body, rippling thews.

This woman, this astounding monument,

SPLEEN AND THE [DEAL

winningly slim, yet with a buxom shape, was made to couch on 2 refulgent throne

and charm the spare time of a prince or pope.

O look at the refined, voluptuous grin

where Self-conceit parades its ecstasies;

that sly, mocking and apathetic stare.

Those dainty features, wholly veiled in gauze, proclaim to us with a triumphant air:

“Love crowns my head, and Pleasure asks for me!” Look closely at this noble work: what charm

is flowing out of her gentility.

Come walk the whole way round her lovely form.

O blasphemy of art! O fatal trick! This woman, this celestial lure toward joy, is at the top a double-headed freak!

=~

—But no, it’s just a mask, a visual ploy,

e . thatface lit up by an exquisite grin,

and, look, the features on the actual face, crushed miserably underneath a screen, seem to seek shelter in deceptiveness.

Poor gorgeous thing! The river of your tears voluminously wets my worried soul.

Your slyness thrills me, andI slake my fierce thirst in your eyes’ tormented waterfall.

—Why is she weeping, she, pure pulchritude,

F. who forces mankind to obey her laws?

What secret evil chews her sinewy side?

She weeps, you fool, because she’s lived, because she still is living. But what makes her grieve the most, what really brings her to her knees,

25

Me il

H

a Sd

26 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL F

is that tomorrow she must be alive still, and the next day, and the next—like us.

21. Hymn to Beauty

O Beauty, do you come from Paradise "or Hell? Your gaze, infernal and divine, brims over with benevolence and viee, and that’s why people liken you to wine.

Your eyes are full of sunrise and sunset;

you strew fragrances like a stormy night.

Your mouth is like a flask; your kiss, a draught, makes heroes weak and children resolute.

Are you here from the stars? From the abyss? The dog of Fate attends your daily stroll. You sow at random jubilance and woes.

You rule all things but aren't responsible.

You mock the corpses thatyoutrampleon. You wear Abomination as jewelry, and Homicide, your favorite precious stone,

jigs on your belly in an amorous way.

Candle, the dazed moth seeking out your glow ignites and utters: “Blessed be my doom!” Panting above his love, the handsome beau looks like a sick man hugging his own tomb.

Beauty, you simple, vile monstrosity,

I cannot care about your origin,

provided that your gaze, smile, feet show me a sweet infinity I have never known.

F. Angel or Siren?* Satan? God? Who cares,

so long as you, O queen with eyes of satin, O scent, light, rhythm, make the universe less loathsome and the lapse of time less leaden?

21x The Jewels

My love was nude but, since she knew my heart,

| é had kept her jewels on—that was all she wore. e. Thisrich array displayed the conquering art

slave girls might use in kingdoms of the Moor.

This gleaming world of precious stones and gold, when it performs its pert and mocking dance, drives me out of my mind. Yes, I go wild

} ‘ : over the back-and-forth of lights and tones.

—=—

4 She lay alluringly, prepared for love,

and from a couch looked down on my desire

which, like a sweet and oceanic wave,

: m). rose for her, as the tide climbs up the shore.

§ She watched me with a vanquished tiger's eyes sand posed and posed in an indifferent way. Candidness, mixed in her with artifice,

endeared her metamorphoses to me.

First it was arms and shoulders, back and thighs, - , laved as with oil and rippling like a swan,

4 that moved before my calm and probing eyes. y Then belly and breasts, grape clusters on my vine,

‘ advanced and urged me more than demons could gf, tosmash the peacefulness my soul had reached,

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

{

i

~*~

28 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

to smash to bits the crystal colonnade in which it had been all-too-calmly couched.

Her waist so thickened into either hip

that I observed what seemed a new design— Abuxom girl below, a boy on top.

What great artiste had daubed her outside brown?

Because the sun was fixed on going out, we two were secing by the hearth alone, and, every time it sighed a sigh of light,

it flickered crimson on that amber skin.

22 Exotic Perfume

When, on a warm fal] evening, I breathe in, eyes shut, the perfume of your balmy breast, Isee avery happy stretch of coast

lit by the fires of an unsubtle sun:

a lazy island on which Nature grows peculiar trees and fruits that taste like bliss, sinewy males whose limbs are vigorous,

and females flashing candor from their eyes.

Led by your fragrance to this charming place, I see a wharf with ships and rigging still worn out from riding on the ocean swell;

meanwhile the scent of verdant tamarind, swelling my nostrils, riding on the breeze, mixes with sailors’ chanteys in my mind.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

23 Her Hair

O tumble to the collarbone, O fleece,

O locks, O fragrance full of “I don’t care,” what ecstasy! To stuff a gloomy place with all I know is rife within this mass, I'll shake it like a kerchief in the air.

Africa: torrid; Asia: languorous—

whole worlds half-dead and very far away live in your depths, redolent wilderness. While other spirits sail on melodies,

mine, O my darling, swims in your bouquet.

I'll go to where both resinous man and tree lose consciousness beneath a tropic blast. Strong, swelling tresses, carry me away!

O ohyxsea,O dazzlingreverie, ~

made up of sail and pennant, oar and mast:

a sounding harbor where my soul can swil] colossal waves of sounds and scents and hues, where vessels on the silk and golden swell open their arms wide to the sky to cull

the heat there making an‘eternal daze.

P'll dunk my lust-besotted head in this dark sea where what I want is kept in prison. My subtle soul that rolls in its caress

@ willrediscover you, ripe languidness,

B Oendless rest, ambrosial intermission.

Indigo tresses, you, O shadow tent, lend me an ever-azure, open sky.

ep] gladly sink into the mingled scent

29

: | h 4

30 THE FLOWERS OFEVIL

the little wisps along your neck ferment— cocoa oil, musk and tar in harmony.

Along time! Always! In your mess of hair my hand will scatter every precious stone

so that you not be deaf to my desire.

Paradise of my dreams—that’s what you are, my gourd for drinking memory’s best wine.

24 Lloveyouas I love nocturnal skies...

Llove you as I love nocturnal skies,

O grandiose reserve, O tear-filled vase.’ Attractive one, midnight accessory,

[love you more the more you run from me, the more mockingly you expand the breach between the big blue and my farthest reach.

[rush you, climb you, outrage you as if Lwere a choir of worms, and you, 4 stiff. / Implacable, cruel creature, Ladore

your chill—it makes you even lovelier.

25 Adulterated woman, you would screw the whole...

Adulterated woman, you would screw the whole world in an alley. Boredom makes you mean of soul. Merely to work your teeth, as if you're at some sport, you spend the whole day gnawing on a lover's heart. Lit up like a boutique’s front windows or like trees adorned with lanterns for outdoor festivities,

your eyes use borrowed power ina haughty way, utterly mindless of your beauty’s monarchy.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

O blind and deaf machine, fecund in cruelties,

drinker of all creation’s blood, wholesome device,

} 2 4 why are you not embarrassed? Why have you not seen, Bin every mirror that you pass, your charm’s decline?

Has the immensity of every wicked plot . you brilliantly conceive not filled your heart with fright, when Nature, mighty in her secretive designs,

uses you for her own ends, O you queen of sins,

foul beast, to knead out men of ingenuity?

O muddy grandeur! O sublime ignominy!

26 Sednon satiata’

; Bizarre and shadowy divinity,

4 musky mélange of perfume and Havana, ' work of an obeah, Faust’ of the savannah, . child of the night, witch cut from ebony, a . love dancing on your lips is more to me 4 than opium and Malbec, Cabernet.

B.: A Ms

Whenever my desires parade your way,

E your eyes, like cisterns, slake my great ennui.

Yes, large and dark, they pour your spirit out. « ~—Oruthless demon, serve a drink less hot. . _ Tamnoriver Styx" to wrap you round

: nine times, nor can I, so that I could wound f your will and lay you low, dire debauchee,

f oOnyour infernal mattress play Persephone.’

Ng

Ki | bs : . \! : \ i i ‘Be ei H vf

_ " -= = _ ee =

32 THE FLOWERS OF tVIL

27 When she, abillow of bejeweled clothing ...

when she, a billow of bejeweled clothing, enters, itseems that she is dancing like an endless snake some charmer has got writhing

rhythmically up and down a shaken stick.

She understands our misery as well

as a dark morning does, or desert air.

Like long networks of breakers in the swell, she moves about without the slightest care.

Fine stones have gone into her polished eyes, and in that strange symbolic nature where classical sphinxes’ mix with seraphim,

where everything is keen steel, gold and gem, there shimmers always, like a useless star,

a sterile woman’s frigid stateliness.

28 ASerpent Dancing

Ilove to take you in, indolent one,

to watch your gorgeous skin glint like chiffon.

In the depths of your curls that smell ot oil and scent, in that vagabond dark sea-swell

with an indigo tint,

my dreaming soul is cruising toward distant skies

" ‘be 2. 0

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL 33

f like aship in the morning rousing before a breeze.

: Re Your eyes are gems where gold

4

. andiron meet,

Bi where nothing is revealed of bitter or sweet.

; 7 Whenever you move, entrancing : P paragon,

a you seem a serpent dancing along a baton.

a | fe. «Your head, resembling a smooth

young elephant’s, 4 sways like a child’s beneath a ‘your indolence,

and your body leans and stretches like a trim ship

\ thatrolls and rolls and drenches

: 4 its yards in the deep.

@ When the waters of your mouth E mount to your lips

like the sea rising beneath thawed ice caps,

‘a I know! am drinking ared

4 wine, strong and tart— 7 anight sky over my head ~ spangling my heart.

34 THE FLOWERS OF,EVIL 29 ACarcass

Do you recall, my love, the thing we saw

that fine morning in luscious June?

Right where the pathway turned, a carcass lay on a bed made of cobblestone.

Her legs akimbo like a harlot’s, she, a boiling, toxic, sweating mass, exposed, in an aloof, ironic way,

a belly puffed with noxious gas.

The sun was shining on that heap of rot as if to cook it thoroughly and pay back Nature many times for what

she had arranged in pregnancy.

The sky kept gaping as the noble stiff opened, flower-like, to the dawn.

The stench was so intense it seemed as if you just might pass out on the lawn.

The blowflies in her bowels made a hum; there also was a horde of seething maggots flowing like a busy stream across her ripped and living clothing.

The whole ensemble burgeoned with arasp or swelled and tumbled like the sea. It seemed her flesh, filled with a sort of gasp,

thrived on its own fecundity.

This cosmos loosed a curious music-making, like running water, or a gale, or grain afarmhand with a rhythmic shaking

keeps moving in a winnowing pail.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

Such evocations, like a dream, diffused— @ a challenging, half-done design some artist had forgot and later must

_ complete from memory alone.

a Arestless mongrel, crouched behind a rock,

qi studied us with a greedy stare,

cr _ biding her time until she could get back

4 the chunk she had abandoned there.

4 —And you, my being’s center, you, my love,

; f the star and angel of my eyes,

: a someday will match that offal. You will prove, mat last, unsightly putridness.

re ae.’

4 Yes, charming princess, you will look like that E: when the last sacraments are over q and you go down among the dead and rot ‘2 beneath the grass and flowering clover. 7 Then tell the maggots, O my gorgeous one, as they consume you kiss by kiss, & thatI preserve the beauty and divine a essences of my mistresses.

\

me 30 De profundis clamavi

7 Please show me pity, you, my only passion.

4 Here in the dark pit where my sad heart lies

i Isee a glum realm rimmed by leaden skies and rife with all-night terrors and damnation.

i a For six long months a cold sun casts its beams. § For six long months night hides away an earth

35

36 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

even more naked than the polar north

—no animals, no greenery, no streams.

No horror in the world is crueler than the frigid torture of that glacial sun and that night vast as ancient Anarchy.

I envy most the lower beasts because, sunk deep in ignorance, they doze and doze. My skein of time unwinds so sluggishly!

31 The Vampire

Yes, you are one who like a blade

has gotten into my sorrowful heart. Yes, you, as forward as a crowd

ot demons, are at hand, dressed smart,

to make your bedroom and estate in my humiliated soul. j _You monstrous thing, you bind meas tight

as manacles bind acriminal,

as card games bind a gambling man,

as bottles of red wine bind a sot,

as carcasses bind blowfly and rat. —Cursed woman, Iam wholly your own.

To win my freedom back from you, [have begged mercy of a blade.

I have decanted poison, too,

to fix my lack of fortitude.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

4 . Scorning the cowardice I showed, I both knife and poison said to me:

“You are not worthy to be freed

i ?

» from your detestable slavery.

If either one of us should strain

F : to liberate you from her empire

§ —fooll, the carcass of your vampire,

K beneath your kisses, would live again!”

31x Lethe’ a Come to my heart, you cruel and sullen thing, 4 loved tiger, creature with a lazy air.

&. How long I've longed to plunge my trembling E fingers into the thickness of your hair!

- [want to stash my much tormented head K’ beneath your fine apparel, in your scent, ,, and breathe, as if out of a flower that’s dead, 4 the redolence of what our love once meant.

q I want to sleep, to sleep instead of live, and, ina state as sweet as lifelessness, to dream of kissing you without reproof, kissing that body with the copper gloss.

4 If Ishould choke down my oppressive sighs, 3 it would be in your couch’s deep abyss.

: Your breath is fragrant with forgetfulness. ® Letheitselfisin your every kiss.

ie My destiny from now on, and my bliss, h. will be to suffer like an innocent

37

a aa re = = —="

—— ne ee —— -- j

- ot a _ . ——— —O

i Mh

Nis 4 | Wl e i A

8 hi ‘ | ah i

*

38 THE FLOWERS of EVIL

and doomed convict, a docile martyr, whose

desire intensifies his punishment.

To'cure my bitterness, T’ll suck in drugs

of oblivion, of all-consuming rest,

_ from your ungentle breast’s bewitching dugs.

There never was a heart inside your chest.

32 Once, sleeping with a horrid Jewish cron¢...

Once, sleeping witha horrid Jewish crone (we lay like corpses), I began to dream, beside that flesh bought for a given time, of someone beautiful who once was mine.

Tsaw afresh her native majesty, her gaze armed with vitality and grace, her hair ascented casque around her face. These memories reanimated me.

f I would have wildly kissed your noble skin, and rolled out treasuries of deep caresses

from your young feet to your dubky tresses,

if you had been able to devise, one night, some easy tears, O wicked queen,

to dim the splendor of your frigid eyes!

33 Postmortem Remorse

After you go to sleep, my shady sweet, inthe dark stone of your memorial and come to own as bedroom and estate

only a leaky vault and funeral hole,

ee SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

BY: when, by squeezing tight your panting breast ,

and lithe, sloth-graceful haunches, slabs annul

_ your heartbeats and volition and arrest ., the feet that went out looking for a thrill,

he

‘ the tomb, intimate with my infinite

. reveries during long nights without sleep

—s . (tombs understand the poet’s mind, of course), ; : willsay, “Flawed courtesan, what good was it— fe, your ignorance of why the dead ones weep?”

Ed : And worms will gnaw your carcass like remorse. :

‘a 34 The Cat

g Come to my lovesick lap, my cat, my dear. Bt F' Retract the talons of your paws

and please, please drown me in that gorgeous stare

: 4 made out of steel and glass.

; 4 _ Whenever my fingers pet, with perfect ease,

#, your head and supple derriere,

' whenever they excitedly caress

, your electrifying fur,

A “ - ITseem to see my woman. Her scrutiny, co.

m, cold and unending, like your own,

B. affable creature, flays me like a blade,

# and, from her feet up to her head,

* asubtle air, a dangerous bouquet,

: t a) 77H

radiates from her dark brown skin.

39

a “

40 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL 35 Duellum’

Two warriors in a duel: steel has struck, and blood is flowing. Sparks are in the air. The clang of metal and the give-and-take are youth in service to some loud amour.

Their blades are broken, like our youth, my love, but teeth and fingernails avenge the lost

sword and the shattered dagger soon enough. —O hearts mature in ulcerated lust!

Our brawling champions have tumbled down into a gorge where lynx and panther dwell. The dry thorns bloom with skin—that pit is Hell;

our friends are init. Savage Amazon, let's roll around down there without regret till we immortalize our ardent spite.

36 The Balcony’

Lover of lovers, mother of recollection,

you who are al! my pleasure, all my duty, remember now the depth of my affection,

sweet hours beside the fire, and twilight beauty, lover of lovers, mother of recollection.

Evenings lit only by a glowing coal, rose-scented evenings on the balcony—

how sweet your breast was, how sublime your soul.

We uttered phrases that will never die on evenings lit only by a glowing coal.

Pa ay ed

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL 41

Sunlight is gorgeous in the balmy dusk!

Our hearts are big; the views are limitless!

I swear I smelled your blood (it smelled like musk) when I came close, princess of princesses. Sunlight is gorgeous in the balmy dusk!

ie A wall arose that was the thickening night. . Your eyes were there—my own eyes felt them out. ~°, Idrankyour breath, O poisonous delight!

My loving hands were on your sleeping feet. A wall arose that was the thickening night.

Calling up happy moments is an art. Head resting on your knees, I live again. Your languid beauty lives inside your heart

| ' and body—what else would I find it in? . : » Calling up happy moments is an art?

O vows, O scents, O everlasting kisses— will they arise from the unfathomed pit | as sunlight lost inside the sea’s abyss is born again each morning, opposite?

O vows, O scents, O everlasting kisses!

37. The Possessed

The sun has dressed himself in funeral clothes. Moon of my life, muffle yourself like him. Sleep, if you wish, or smoke. Be mute, be dim. Plunge your whole self into Ennui's abyss.

That's how I love you best. But, if you swagger, like an eclipsed star stepping from the murk, into insane debauchery on a lark, -

g. how perfect! Leave your sheath, you charming dagger.

Te a AE, vey

42 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL rl

Kindle your eyes from all the lights that shine. Enkindle lust in random dunces’ glances.

Morbid or wild, to me you are a joy.

Go on. Be what you will: black night, red dawn. Everything in my trembling flesh pronounces, “My dear Beelzebub, you are for me!”

38 APhantom

I. The Darkness

Inside the cave of sad oblivion

where Fate has sentenced me to make my home, where no rose-colored sunbeams ever come, where, with my sullen hostess Night, alone,

Iam a great artist whom God, the smart- aleck, has forced to paint, alas!, the dusk, where, like a cook who favors the grotesque, I have to boil and then devour my heart,

f sometimes a specter made of grace and light flickers a spell, then lengthens, grows and grows. When it has reached its fullest width and height,

I recognize the gorgeous visitor by its distinctive, Eastern, weird allure: it’s Her! Pitch-black, but somehow luminous.

IT. Perfume

Reader, have you inhaled, from time to time, like an indulgent glutton, like a souse,

the incense wholly filling up a house

of God ora sachet's age-old perfume?

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL 43

av deep, deep magic where the days of yore,

restored, intoxicate the mind afresh. Thus does the lover from his lover’s flesh gather up memory’s exquisite flower.

¢ An alien and fearsome scent would rise out of my lover’s thick, resilient hair, a censer in a niche, living sachet,

4 and, whether plush or muslin, all her clothes,

redolent with her pure naiveté, would set at large, for me, the scent of fur.

III. The Frame

In just the same way as a frame can give

even avery celebrated painting

something remarkable, something enchanting

| ‘s by setting it apart from things that live,

gems, metals, gilding, furniture became, perfectly, her exquisite elegance.

Nothing obscured her spotless radiance. Everything worked to serve her as a frame.

And one could say that she at times had faith all things adored her, in that she would bathe, with great extravagance, her nudity

in kisses given by chiffon or lace and, with each movement, whether leisurely or quick, display a monkey’s childlike grace.

IV. The Portrait Disease and Death make ashes of the fire that once was burning for us. Of those grand

44 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

but tender eyes that flickered with desire, of that mouth in which my heart was drowned,

of kisses active as a healing cream, of rapture more intense than radiance, what's left behind? O soul of mine, how grim!

A pallid picture done in just three tones,

a picture which, like me, is perishing alone, and which that ancient vandal, Time,

erases daily with insulting wing...

O murderer of life and art, dark one, T'll never let you blot out of my brain the woman who was my delight and fame!

39 Idedicate this poem to you so that...

I dedicate this poem to you so that if my renown, a ship blown by agust f out of the north, should chance to reach the coast

of future days and make men dream some night,

though chat of you, vague and outdated tales, will bore the reader like a dulcimer, my lofty verses will suspend you here

in interlacing, mystic manacles.

Damned being, I am all that heeds you now, I only from the pit to paradise. You, though you leave no traces when you pass,

mincingly trample, with a tranquil face, fools who have criticized your nastiness. O dark-eyed angel with a polished brow!

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

& 40 Semper eadem’

x. You asked me, “Why is there a haunting gloom me inyou, like breakers washing dark, bare stone?” %. —Because, once we have brought our harvest home,

; ; life is an evil. A secret widely known.

4 Avery simple and straightforward pain { . that, like your joy, is sparkling for us all. | | 4 Stop asking me of it, my curious one,

© and, pleasant though your voice is, please be still.

: § Hush up, you silly, winning soul whose mouth 4 yields childish laughter. Very often Death,

# still more than Life, holds us in subtle ways.

4 Let the great lie besot my dizzy head;

q . let me descend into your dreamlike eyes

and drowse a long time in your lashes’ shade.

4

4 41. All Together

: : The Devil himself stopped by my flat

fF this morning asif to say hello

7 and, trying to catch mein a fault,

ca probed me with: “Here’s what I want to know: : Of all those lovely qualities

4 of hers that charm you and set you reeling,

7 of all the rose and dusky hues

4 ~ that make herbody so appealing,

: g ; Which is the sweetest?” O my soul, ¢ youanswered the Abhorrent One:

45

46 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL 47

rs

ri : “Since all is luscious in the whole, * “,who am beautiful, urge you to adore

no separate piece can be fixed upon. d all that is beautiful through me. Iam

your Virgin, Muse and Angel Overseer.” Since the totality sweeps me away, [cannot name one part most sweet. She dazzles me like the break of day and gives me solace like the night.

43- The Lit Torch

; _ They march before me—brilliant eyes some keen

The harmony is so exquisite B. angel has gifted with magnetic powers.

that holds sway over all she is 5 _ Divine fraternal twins, brothers of mine,

that nobody could analyze it a they pul] my eyes up toward their gem-like fires.

or single out the melodies. They save me from the snares of vice and crime

That dazzling unity drives all and guide me down the path of Beauty. They

my senses wild with astonishment attend on me; I am enslaved to them.

so that her breath is musical 4 They are a lit torch which I must obey.

and words she says are full of scent.” 4 ’ ~The mystic light you shine, Alluring Eyes, | : is candles in the daytime, and ared

42 Whatwill you saytonight... .. sun never puts out your fantastic blaze.

What will you say tonight, poor lonesome soul? But you are bracing; candles serve the dead.

What will you say, old withered heart of mine, Stars of a flame the sun cannot excel,

to her, most good, most dear, most beautiful, q the song you pipe while marching stirs my soul.

beneath whose sacred eyes you bloom again?

—Now we will proudly magnify her fame: 43x To One WhoIs Too Cheerful

nothing excels the sweetness of her sway;

her holy body smells like cherubim; Your head, your attitude, your ways

her gaze wraps us in clothes as bright as day. g are lovely as the countryside.

Like breezy days withouta cloud

Whether it be at night in solitude fF thesmiles that animate your eyes.

or ona thoroughfare among a crowd,

her ghost precedes me like a torch’s flame: The passérby your presence warms

§. issmitten with you in your prime

48 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

F - that radiates with so much vim

out of your shoulders and your arms.

The bright hues and the radiance in which you dress yourself make all the poets out there, heart and soul,

see, in their minds, a flower dance.

Those crazy clothes are emblems ot the extravagance of you, the thrill. Madwoman, Iam mad as well,

and I abominate you, love.

Sometimes in green and pleasant places to which I have lugged my great ennui, I have suffered as, like irony,

rays of the sun chewed me to pieces.

And then the springtime greenery has so demoralized my heart

that I have ripped a flower apart

to punish Nature’s pomposity.

Soin the hour of sensuousness,

late, late at night, I wish I could

glide thief-like over to your bed

and climb your body’s treasure-house

and spoil your all-too-healthy rind by mutilating your tempting breast and cutting, ina haunch, avast and terribly unshallow wound,

and then, O dizzying temptation, by parting those lips of yours, my dear,

4 SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL 49

: a those lovely, vivid lips you wear,

. ici Mie

a re. ee as

B passionately inject my poison.

44 Reversibility

Glad angel, do you know disquietude,

sighs, degradation, penitence, vexations

es . and frightening nights’ obscure abominations be which crumple up the heart into a wad? 4 : Glad angel, do you know disquietude?

". Angel of kindness, do you know distemper, 7 fists'clenching in the dark and tears of gall, 4 when Vengeance beats out rhythms born in Hell q - and makes, of all our faculties, his empire?

| 4 E Angel of kindness, do you know distemper? ; ] Healthy angel, do you know disease | f which, like an outcast, limps through hospital rooms? : Hoping to see sunlight, a few stray beams, , :. he does his best to speak but just makes noise. . | Healthy angel, do you know disease? |

: Angel of beauty, do you know the fear of wrinkling, aging, and the hideous - torment of seeing, in a person’s eyes, . 4 former passion turning to a chore? : Angel of beauty, do you know the fear?

4 Angel of light and mirth and happiness,

a the dying David would have claimed the bloom ’ that radiates from your tantalizing prime,’

but all I want to ask of you is grace,

4 angel of light and mirth and happiness.

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50 THE FLOWERS GF EVIL 45 Confession

Sweet and endearing friend, one time, just once, you placed your fine arm on my own

(and deep down in my spirit’s dark confines

the memory of that touch lives on):

midnight and, like a medal made of silver, the harvest moon was shining down. Itseemed the hour’s sincerity, like a river, was flowing through the sleeping town.

There were some cats that crept about like thieves among the houses and the stalls.

Their ears were pricked; like specters out of graves, they followed slowly at our heels.

All of asudden, in the confidence

born of the night surrounding us,

from you, most resonant of instruments,

a fiddle filled with joyousness, f

from you, as vigorously as at dawn a bugle sounds the reveille, afunny tone, a melancholy tone,

escaped your lips and limped away

as if it were a sickly, foul, obscene child, an entire family’s shame, one whom they, to conceal it from the sun,

keep locked up ina basement room.

It sang, poor thing, the selfsame note you sighed: “Nothing is trustworthy down here. Self-interest always rears its ugly head,

whatever paint it tries to wear, a

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

yi Being a beauty is a full-time job,

+ ia

ae. of the crazed dancer who can only sob #e°) behind a mechanistic smile.

#. Trusting in others is preposterous B® since love and loneliness break down,

i. and Darkness bags the rubble, piece by piece,

See Istill recall her quiet apathy, % i f. . ; ‘the moonlight like a witch's spell,

ee. andthe dread secret that she hissed to me mm: asifinaconfessional.

x

q 46 The Spiritual Dawn

g. When, partnered with the rodentine Ideal, f-. white-rosy dawn reaches the drunkards’ dive, | q an angel, to fulfill some punitive ~ decree, wakes ina sleepy animal. 4 The distant azure of the Sacred Sky 3 opens and yawns with infinite allure, fe for downcast men who ache and still aspire. me That's how, pure Being, darling Deity, ; 4 | wy Over the ruins of a drunken rout, f. the rosier, more enticing memory

F “of you glints always in my widened eyes.

; & The rising sun has put the candles out. me. YOu, soul who always shincs triumphantly, g are equal to the sun that never dies.

———

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52 THE FLOWERSZOF EVIL

47 The Harmony of Evening’

Right now the stems are quivering; right now flowers, like censers, loose, each, a bouquet. Sounds and perfumes are mingling in the sky,

amournful waltz, a languid vertigo.

Flowers, like censers, loose, each, a bouquet; the trembling violin is full of woe,

a mournful waltz, alanguid vertigo.

The sky, an altar cloth, is shadowy.

The trembling violin is full of woe,

a tender heart that hates vacuity.

The sky, an altar cloth, is shadowy.

The sun is sliding down like dark blood flow.

A tender heart that hates vacuity gathers up embers of a bygone glow. The sun is sliding down like dark blood flow.

You, like a monstrance, light my memory. ,

48 The Perfume Bottle

There are intense perfumes to which all matter is pervious. You could say they pass through glass.

For instance, opening a chest brought from the East,

a chest whose old lock squeaks and squeals because of rust,

orin an empty house while searching an armoire rife with the dark and dusty fragrance of the days of yore, you sometimes find an age-old bottle filled with lost

memories. Pick it up, and you revive a ghost.

aa

Bs

Lae

SPLEEN AND THE [IDEAL 53

A thousand thoughts were sleeping in obscurity,

a thousand gently trembling cocoons, and they, tinted with azure, glazed with rose, gold-glittering, fledge themselves of asudden and are on the wing.

Intoxicating memory leaps into the nose

on currents of disturbance; you must close your eyes. Vertigo wrestles the already vanquished soul through the abysmal recesses of human smell

and drops it to the bottom of an ancient pit

where, just as Lazarus once tore his winding-sheet,’ a ghostly corpse comes back to life—the specter of

a long-dead and seductive, rancid sort of love.

So it will be for me that, when Iam no more

in people’s memories, when, in the woeful drawer

in which I have been left behind, I lie, an old bottle—decrepit, cracked and dusty, ringed with mold,

I will become, O luscious pestilence, your grave and testify to the intensity you have. O poison mixed by seraphim, like alcohol

you gnaw my senses! You begin and end my soul!

49 Poison

Wine can invest a foul depression with most marvelous luxuries

and make fantastic rows of columns rise from its alchemic breath,

breath crimson as the sun in dirty skies.

54 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL ra *

Opium spreads beyond all boundaries, expands on boundlessness,

' makes hours never-ending, augments bliss, and with dark, dismal joys

surfeits the spirit with expansiveness.

But those are nothing to the venom flowing

out of your eyes, those round,

green and reflective lakes that warp my mind... My dreams are always going

into those bitter fathoms to be drowned.

And yet the miracle of your saliva

by far exceeds them all.

It sinks its teeth in, shakes and hurls my soul ruthlessly down ariver,

and I go tumbling all the way to Hell!

50 Cloudy Sky

One could describe your gaze as “lostin rain.’ Your baffling eyes (are they blue, gray or green?) by turns compassionate, dreamy or merciless, reflect the tedium of pallid skies.

Dear, you evoke white-veiled and lukewarm hours that make the hearts of the entranced shed tears and make their nerves, stirred by some undefined and racking pain, jeer at the sleeping mind.

You seem at times a beautiful horizon

lit up at sunset in a misty season...

O cloudy patch, touched by a few stray beams, despite the rainfall, you go up in flames!

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL 55

FE Dangerous women, ravishing milieu, we will I adore, in time, hoarfrost and snow? a. Will I extract, from stubborn winter, joys ai even more keen than those of iron and ice? ay Be ¥ 4 $1 The Cat iq mI.

a A strong, sweet, handsome and glamorous

of ‘

; _ 3 | catis strolling inside of me as if I were his property. You scarcely hear when he meows;

1 . : .

f: his voice is so soft and amiable.

b But, when he utters a purr or growl, Bit becomes very powerful.

a 2 its

F Such is his secret and his spell.

° f Those sounds, turned into liquid, sink re into the darkest depths of me.

: q They fill me up like poetry

| 4 and refresh me like a magic drink.

eh ar.” )

ie a Able to slake the keenest anguish, 4 ~ his voice holds many ecstasies

a inside itself. It can express

2 _ €pics without the use of language. E My heart is like a violin,

Fand there is no bow anywhere

x - that plays a concert inme more ae sublimely and resonantly than

4 4 4 P ,

) | i

pH li.

Hii

ll |

i

oe T : ] | : \ :

| i

56 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

7”

the sound of you, ee bizarre and seraphic animal. Asin the nature of angels, all of you is fine and harmonious.

IL.

His patchwork coat emits so sweet

a fragrance that one night I was embalmed in much perfume because I gave him just one little pet.

My household's guardian spirit, he presides and judges, rules in glory over his whole territory.

Is he an elf? A deity?

My eyes, as if by magnetic attraction, gape at the loved beast. But, when they are able to look tamely away,

and I succumb to self-reflection,

I see, surprising, inside of me '

his pale irises up in flames, illustrious beacons, living gems, that contemplate me fixedly.

52 The Beautiful Ship

Soft sorceress, I will describe to you

that youth of yours where many graces glow. I want to paint an elegance

where ripeness is allied with innocence.

fF you seem a fine ship putting out to sea with full sails, rocking on the tide 4 lazily, slowly, sweetly, side to side.

Atop plump shoulders and a stout, round neck

O regal child, how placidly,

how gloriously, you go your way.

B - Soft sorceress, I will describe to you

F’ that youth of yours where many graces glow. - Iwantto paintan elegance

where ripeness is allied with innocence.

__ Your breasts push out whatever dress you wear, 4 triumphal breasts much like a fine armoire endowed with bright round bosses that,

like shields for soldiers, give back sparks of light:

exciting shields, inset with tips of rosel And, in the drawers, sweet secret luxuries, perfume and fine liqueur and wine,

that stupefy the hearts and minds of men.

When you, with your full skirts, go sweeping by, you seem a fine ship putting out to sea

with full sails, rocking on the tide

lazily, slowly, sweetly, side to side.

« Your noble legs, beneath the silks they chase, arouse and torment vague proclivities

like twin enchanters mixing up

a dark elixirin a drinking cup.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

{ When you, with your full skirts, go sweeping by,

¢ your head bobs with a quaint grace when you walk.

|

¥ a -¢ 58 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Your arms, like those of infant Hercules,

like glistening boa-snakes, are made to squeeze the life out of your prey, as if

you wanted printed on your breast—your love.

, Atop plump shoulders anda stout, round neck

your head bobs with a quaint grace when you walk. O regal child, how placidly,

how gloriously, you go your way.

33 The Invitation to the Voyage

Dream of the joy

of living with me,

my child, my dear. We two will love all day,

love and then die,

in aland that looks like you. To meat least,

the overcast

and sweet sun there appears as mysterious

as your lying eyes

shining through your tears.

There will be nothing but beauty and leisure,

harmony, calm and pleasure.

Shined by the years,

bright tables and chairs

would furnish our shared bedchamber. Exquisite blooms,

mixing perfumes,

would smell vaguely of amber.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

a f£ach sumptuous ceiling 4 ‘and mirror revealing

| ql Oriental style

- y would mutely intone

| a its very own

a sweet language to the soul. Bi There will be nothing but beauty and leisure, b harmony, calm and pleasure.

a # The ships that dream

‘ ; a on river and stream,

_ % each, in an errant way,

Bis waiting to bear

; your least desire

& wherever it wants to be.

q —The glorious sun,

F as it goes down

4 on rivers, fields and streets,

; F will empurple and gild gm all we behold

in its hot-blooded glitz.

; There will be nothing but beauty and leisure, ‘(ae harmony, calm and pleasure.

; - 54 The Irreparable

§. How can we choke Remorse, the die-hard one, q who lives and moves tortuously?

7 6 Much like a worm, he gets beneath our skin, a much like a mite, invades the tree.

- 4 _ Howcan we choke Remorse, the die-hard one?

FL ACO Te:

oe Ham ee, 2 oe ee eS Ce . -

|

Be i i | | ¥ . | | ¥ : t

60 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL #*

What nostrum or what vintage or what draught can drown an age-old nemesis

as nasty as a greedy prostitute

and ant-like in its stubbornness?

What nostrum or what vintage or what draught?

Darling enchantress, speak out if you can

to this my soul that seeks reliet.

It's moribund, both crushed by wounded men and trampled by a horse’s hoot.

Darling enchantress, speak out if you can

to me, a wretched man that wolves sniff at and circling crows look down upon.

Speak to this ravaged soldier. Must he not own even afunerary stone?

It’s me, a wretched man that wolves sniff at.

Can one light up asky this dense and black? | Rip through a murkiness in which

there is no sun to vanish and come back,

no shooting star to cleave the pitch. f Can one light up asky this dense and black?

The Hope that lights up windows at the Inn is snuffed out now and gone for good.

No sun is shining on its grounds; no moon shows sufferers the proper road.

Satan has darkened windows at the Inn.

Sweet sorceress, do you adore the cursed

and grasp the sin we can’t forbear?

Imean Remorse, whose toxic shafts have pierced our target hearts and rankle there.

Sweet sorceress, do you adore the cursed?

aL a SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

Be The Irreparable grinds his nasty jaws -' upon our souls, inept creations,

structures by striking their foundations. \ The Irreparable grinds his nasty jaws.

#, —I've witnessed in a commen theater, . as instruments played on and on,

f 2 fairy, lost in an infernal blur,

a ‘suddenly enkindle dawn.

fi. I’ve witnessed in a common theater

a being made of light and gold and mesh

ae 3 swoop down and drive great Satan out,

; but in the tawdry playhouse of my flesh

4 (a place untouched by rapture), I await

é , always that being fledged with wings of mesh.

f 55 AConversation

gue, YOu area clear and rosy autumn sky,

| q but sorrow breaking on me like a tide

a leaves on my sad lips, when it flows away, ‘ the burning memory of brackish mud.

. No use your reaching for my panting chest. What you are after has been rooted out :. bysavage female teeth and claws. Desist.

A & That heart is nowa place where, in a rout, Yowdies get drunk and pull hair, even kill!

_ ~What scent hovers around your gorgeous throat?...

61

—_——— ———

ta

oN r cal! |;

Mt ‘ ei

| i yi |

a

| sh, ui i

62 THE FLOWERSWF EVIL

Beauty, this flagellation is your will. Come, use your eyes, bright as a festival, to roast the bits the beasts refused to eat.

56 Autumn Song

{.

Now we will plunge into a dark, dark chill. Goodbye, short summer. Goodbye, vivid glare. Lean already hear the funeral knell

of logs tumbling to the courtyard floor.

All winter will possess my being: gall,

hate, forced and stubborn toil, much shivering, and, like the sun in his Antarctic Hell,

my heart will be a frozen, blood-red thing.

I tremble listening to the thud of fuel. Builders of gallows make no worse a sound. My spirit, like a tower, reels toa cruel ;

ram’s obdurate percussion: Pound. Pound. Pound.

To me, lulled by those tiresome thuds, it seems a coffin’s quickly being nailed. But whose? Summer was yesterday; now autumn comes. There is departure in that eerie noise.

II. Ido adore your large eyes’ emerald glow, my sweet, but all is bitterness to me,

and nothing, not your love, hearth, bedroom, now

is worth the sunlight shining on the sea.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

: But, tender darling, love me anyway. : Be mother to asour, unthankful man. 4 Lover or sister, be what just won’t stay, ‘ the joy of autumn or the setting sun.

; . Short work! The tomb waits, keen for her repast. : - Whent have laid my head down on your knees B to mourn bright, torrid summer, let me taste

4 late autumn’s luscious and unhealthy rays.

- 57 ToaMadonna

q A Votive in the Spanish Style’

O mistress, O Madonna, I would build for you E asecret altar in the chasm of my woe,

F then cut a niche out in my dark soul's corner, far from all contemptuous looks and everyday desire,

2 q gid it and decorate the shrine with azure hues. 4 There you, amazing statue, will assume your pose.

q Next, from my highly polished, steely poetic lines : ' meticulously set with rhymes like precious stones, t Iwould assemble an impressive diadem.

Then, Virgin, in my Envy, I would cut and hem

a fancy robe for you in the barbaric style,

stiff and grotesque, lined with Suspicion. Like a jail, it will imprison all the charms on which I dote. Instead of pearls, my weeping will bedazzle it.

j My trembling Desire will serve you for a gown,

p Waves of Desire that buoy up and tumble down,

F mountto the top of summits, fall into abysses.

= It will invest your fair and rosy flesh with kisses.

q Prom Deference I would make some handsome slippers, shod

63

64 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

in silk, in which your little sacred feet will tread.

This footwear, by surrounding them in an embrace, ° will come to take the imprint of their loveliness.

If F cannot, with all the artistry that’s mine,

carve out a silver moon for you to stand upon,

I will insert the snake that rips my insides out

right underneath you, and you will crush beneath your feet, O queen of matchless power, rich in restitution,

that round monstrosity charged up with hate and poison. All of my thoughts, set out like votive lights, will shine before your florid, virginal and noble shrine,

spangle the blue-enameled ceiling with their rays

and always watch you, watch you, with their fiery gaze. Because I love and cherish you so much, my dear,

all will be benjamin and jasmine, incense, myrrh.

My stormy spirit will ascend in fragrant smoke

around your slopes and settle on your snowy peak.

At last, so that you can perfect the role of Mary

and mix some ardor in with dark voluptuary

barbarity, I will take the Seven Sins and maké

knives from them, seven freshly whetted points, and, like a callous knife-thrower in an amusement park,

taking your sweet love's inmost places as my mark,

fix each of them inside your panting heart, inside

your sobbing heart, inside your heat that streams with blood.

58 Song of the Afternoon

Although your mischievous brows give you acurious air

that seraphs do not share,

O witch of the tempting gaze,

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

- odd one, you conquer me

4 with extravagant desire.

| q Ilove you as if you were

i a heathen deity.

F Your every fragrant tress evokes wild lands and woods. You take on attitudes

4 of riddles and mysteries.

¥, Scent varnishes your skin

d as incense fills a nave.

& Warm nymph, the charms you have , g are like the setting sun.

4 No potion hits my head

: as hard as your languidness. 4 You could, with a caress,

a reanimate the dead.

}. Your haunches ardently

f. desire your back and bust.

q You even stuff with lust

§ thecushions on which you lie. Sometimes, while appeasing

: astrange ferocity,

| ’ _ Stern girl, you ambush me

ql with nibbling and kissing.

j ‘ Sometimes, dark one, you flay ’ my heart with bitter laughter, q then cast, 2 moment after,

: your moonlight gaze my way.

| mci

: i ‘

65

4 7 S ’ 4

a Se ee, eee ee og a oa es er eee Se ba Yee ee Soe ee ee

DOO

ig i (: kad

ha 4 i, Mt ih uh

| ‘4 , Whe | | - cH

with be Hib: Ha ah i

wy ae

66 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

I place my entire fate,

my genius, my happiness, beneath your satin shoes, beneath your silky feet.

You set my spirit right

with your various lights and shades. The heat of you explodes

my long Siberian night.’

59 Sisina

Picture Diana’ in majestic clothes off-trail and beating hedges with a stick or, hair loose, breasts exposed, and drunk on noise,

driving the fiercest cavalrymen back!

What of Théroigne’ of the rapacious heart, , stirring the shoeless multitude to war?

With fiery eyes and cheeks, she plays her part by mounting, sword in hand, the royal stair.

Such is Sisina. But, forgiving fighter, she is as charitable as murderous. Her violence, roused by martial drums and niter,

knows how to yield to people’s desperate pleas. Though burnt by passion time and time again, her heart keeps tears in store for worthy men.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL 67

60 Franciscae meae laudes’

Now I will make a novel sort of musi¢ for you, O you hind gamboling through my empty heart.

You should be adorned with flowers, you invigorating woman

who washes away these sins of ours.

I will drink kiss after kiss from you, magnetic one, as from the river of forgetfulness.

When astorm of vice and crime was sweeping through our every path, goddess of goddesses, you came

and, like the lodestar, shared your shine with our benighted frigate. I will place my heart upon your shrine.

O fountain of eternal youth, O reservoir of excellence,

return my lost voice to my mouth.

You have burnt what was obscene, smoothed out what was harsh and warped

and made the weak man strong again.

When I am starved, you are the inn; when I am lost, you are the lamp.

O lead me from paths of sin.

638 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

O sweet bath scented pleasantly with every sort of sweet perfume, come reinforce the strength in me.

Chaste corselet of continence dipped in the angels’ sacred water, gleam your protection of my loins.

O salted bread to dine upon, O goblet glittering with gems, O my Francisca, holy wine.

61 ToaCreoleLady ~~

Off in a sun-touched, scented land, I’ve known, inside an altar made of crimson boughs and palms from which indifference rains down,

a Creole lady of unsung loveliness.

This warm enchantress sheathed in pale dark skin moves her neck nobly, as a princess would.

Much like a huntress, she is tall and thin.

Her smiles are calm; her glances, unafraid.

Madame, if you should travel to the Seine or green Loire in the Jand of true renown,

O beauty worthy of antique chateaus,

you'd draw, inside the shadows of the groves, a thousand odes from poets whom your eyes, your giant eyes, had left more servile than your slaves.

i SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL “Y

- 62 Moesta et errabunda’

i agatha, tell me, do you want to fly

y ar from the brackish ocean of this town

&! toward other waves where a resplendent sky

FY shines deep and blue and makes us chaste again? q Agatha, tell me, do you want to fly?

F ‘The vast sea is a comfort to our grief.

a What devil makes the sea, a hoarse chanteuse

4 accompanied by an organ’s groan, relieve

a our miseries with sacred lullabies?

; 4 The vast sea is a comfort to our grief.

a

since here and now the mud is mixed with tears.

Train, frigate, bring me to a different home,

4 Your heart, Agatha, does sometimes proclaim: : - “Vice prospers here, and torment and remorse. 4 Train, frigate, bring me to a different home.”

« Sweet paradise, why are you so far off?

t =O place where love plays under cloudless skies, ; - where what one loves is worthy of that love,

q where hearts succumb to an immaculate bliss. q Sweet paradise, why are you so far off?

But the green paradise of childhood loves,

of songs, games, kisses, flowers that smell like musk, ¥ of brimming cups of vintage in the groves

f: and fiddles echoing from the hills at dusk—

| butthe green paradise of childhood loves,

q the blameless paradise of stolen delights, is italready farther than Cathay?

~ Can we invoke with melancholy notes

ah. ie

Wi

69

!

i

io

|

| hi Y aye ie

:

70 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

or animate with a silver melody the blameless paradise of stolen delights?

63 The Revenant

['ll slip into your bedroom like an angel with a savage look and with the midnight shadows glide

silently over to your bed,

where T'll give you, my dusky one, kisses as chilling as the moon

and caresses that a sn¢ke might give the dirt heaped up around a grave.

In the discolored light of dawn you'll find my place beside you void and cold until night comes again.

I want to hold authority over your life and youth by dread as others do by delicacy.

64 Autumn Sonnet

Your crystal-bright eyes utter, ‘Whatin me, eccentric lover, do you most admire?” —Hush up. Be sweet. My heart, which all things tire

except for bestial simplicity,

wants to conceal from you its trust with Hell,

its midnight promise handwritten in flame, since you would cradle me a long, long time. Lust rankles. Knowledge makes me feel unwell.

s SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL ‘

3 | Let us love sweetly. Ambushed in his lair, dark Cupid pulls his lethal longbow tight.’ : ¢ know the weapons that he keeps in there: Q Crime, Horror and Insanity! —O pale

B daisy, are we not like the sun in fall,

4 ‘my oh-sotwhite, so frigid Marguerite?”

4 . 65 The Sorrows of the Moon

g Tonight the moon is dreaming, dreaming much 4 more idly than a lovely woman on a heap

B of cushions who, with light and listless touch, 4 brushes her breasts before she falls asleep.

a Thus, fading on a cloud bank's satin back,

q the moon succumbs to lengthy reveries.

a Before her eyes white ghosts appear that, like q a bed of flowers, bloom into the skies.

: 4

a When she at times, in utter sloth, lets drop

: a single tear (a surreptitious one),

q some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

4 takes it, a pale thing gaudy as a shard KF of opal, and conceals it in his heart

, far from the prying vision of the sun.

_. * 15 ;

f 66 The Cats

{ ‘True lovers and exacting scholars both,

F intheir maturer years, love grandiose

= sweet cats, who are their houses’ pride, because j 4 they, too, dislike the cold and tend toward sloth.

8.

71

72 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

True friends of learning and immoderation,

cats hunt the frightening silence darkness breeds.

Darkness’ would use them as his funeral steeds if their hauteur could stomach subjugation.

While meditating, they augustly strike the pose of sphinxes in a no-man’s-land and look like they are lost in reveries.

Their fecund flanks, like magic, spark and shock, and particles of gold, like grains of sand, flicker obscurely in their mystic eyes.

67 TheOwls

Under the black-boughed yew trees’ shade the owls have settled down in rows

and, like exotic deities,

dart crimson from their eyes. They brood.

And there they will remain, stock-still, until the wistful hour comes on

when mighty darkness drives the sun slantwise and rules the land awhile.

The poise they show instructs the wise that in this world one must avoid both agitation and restlessness.

Drunk on the frivolous, our race suffers, as punishment, aneed to move always from place to place.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL & 68 The Pipe

q Jam the pipe of a writer. Like

4 the skin of an Abyssinian—

4 that’s how I look. My hue makes plain R: my owner is fond of having asmoke.

F Whenevétr he is possessed by gloom, , 4 I puff and puff like a kitchen where

y. amealis being cooked up for

5. a workman soon to come back home.

4 Coiling, I cradle my owner’s soul”

b, inthe expanding azure film .. that issues from my burning flue.

- What I unfold is a potent balm : that charms his heart and remedies al]

- q the things that fill him up with woe.

i. 69 Music

;, Music moves me like the ocean swell.

- Whether in openair

f or under heaps of cloud, I spread my sail Hand coast toward a pallid star.

‘f

h

My proud chest puffed out like a figurehead and the cloth of my lungs pulled tight,

, I ride on the back of an ascending flood

’ that is hidden under night.

I feel, alive inside me, all the passions

ofa ship in distress.

A strong wind and a storm with its convulsions

73

a

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os a — - papas —— a, en Le! sane —_—s. ° att tas Z ae - ri = —] .

OE — ae oe ss arenes mm rama ala a Aa : = . a = — — === el = ee or == Oe eat - err. a ee - = = a — =< al cm = —_ = — ——* ° x = = ee = " = aE = 4 = —_— | » ii + ° a = —— =e a —_=--= = = = = = ; —— = — SS = = —- = = = a =-= = = = < = — SSS

=.

a

74 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

cradle me on the sea sometimes. At others, pure tranquillity

mirrors my hopelessness.

70 The Burial

If on adense, dark night some godly Christian soul is charitable

enough to bury your vaunted body behind some ancient shanty’s rubble

just as the immaculate

stars close their tired eyé$ to rest, the spider will be weaving her net, and the viper birthing in her nest.

You will hear throughout all time to come, above your accursed skeleton, dire wolves lugubriously howling,

emaciated witches wailing, old lechers having too much fun, and dim thieves plotting to do crime.

71 AFantastical Engraving”

This ghastly thing has nothing on atall except some cheap crown from a carnival preposterously balanced on his skull. The specter rides astride a spook as well— a doomsday hack he guides without a bit. (The beast drools like a madman in a fit.)

The pair are charging at a breakneck pace

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

through what appears a vast, vast, endless space. h q fe Weaving a flaming sword, the cavalier

; mocks bodies he has trampled down before.

& “ A prince surveying his domain, he flies E j over acold and sizable necropolis where lie, beneath a pale and mournful sun,

a a all who have died since history began.

72. The Happy Corpse

Z 3 4 _ Inrich soil, snai)-infested soil, I hope to dig myself a deep informal grave | whereIcan stretch my old bones out and sleep

forever like a great white.in the wave.

To me, all wills and tombs are odious.

Sooner than beg the world to weep and grieve, I would, while still alive, invite the crows

to drain the blood out of my filthy stiff.

Maggots, companions without ears and eyes, my flesh is coming to you. 1am glad. Rot-offspring, dissolute philosophers,

run through my ruin then, without remorse. Tell me if any ache remains for this

old soulless corpse, the dead among the dead.

73 TheCaskot Hate

Hatred is the Danaides’ wine cask.

®. Insane Revenge, with muscles red and fierce,

lifts up and dumps into her gaping dusk

| 4 pail after pail of dead men’s blood and tears.

75

| : |

-

= ="

ee = at = ry = = a =

76 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

* The Fiend bores secret holes in it, and they would drain a thousand years of sweat and strain,

even if Hatred could revive her prey

and plump their husks to squeeze them dry again.

Hatred is an inebriate in a dive who feels thirst multiply with every drink, like the Lernaean Hydra’s heads in fable.”

Happy the drunk who knows when he is sunk, but Hatred, sadly, has been do omed to live

without the hope of passing out beneath the table.

Fe "4 14 The Cracked Bell

Atnight in winter it is bittersweet to hear old recollections gently rise round the whitening fire’s wisps of light

when church bells launch their voices through the haze.

Happy the bell that has a lively throat. Alert and dignified, despite its age,

it utters its ecclesiastic note

faithfully, like an old guard keeping watch.

My soul is cracked. When, in her boredom, she fills up the cold night air with melodies, it often happens that her fragile voice

rasps like a wounded man unseen beside a lake of blood, among a heap of dead. He cannot move. He dies in agony.

”

"5 Spleen (I)

§ Pluvius, mad at Paris, pours down waves

4 of chilling rain out of his waterpot

: onto the pale inhabitants of graves.

a He pours, too, doom on the suburban street. 4

, a Scrabbling at the tiles, my restless cat

.. al '. prepares some comfort for his mangy hide. A poet's ghost inside a gutter spout

® = complains wretchedly like a frozen shade.

ee es (

een? :, “ Qe as

q A bellis keening, and a smoking log pipes to accompany a grinding clock,

rg 4

3 ‘and, all the while, ina malodorous deck

of cards (the dire bequest of some sick hag) a the jack of hearts and queen of spades converse «, portentously of long-dead love affairs.

ke. r 76: Spleen (IT) ’ More memories than if I'd lived a thousand years!

A massive chest of drawers crammed with lines of verse, 7 court summonses, love letters, novels, balance sheets i and locks of ample hair rolled up in old receipts | 4 hides fewer secrets than my melancholy brain, q which is a pyramid, amound that must contain 4 more dead than pits where thousands have their final home. : A graveyard hated by the moon—that’s what Iam, ' apotter’s field where always, like remorse, a host | ; of worms is gnawing on the flesh I love the most. q : Tam an old boudoir perfumed with withered roses, | aroom extravagantin antiquated dresses,

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL’

Ea

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78 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

where only sad pastels and pale Bouchers’ inhale

the fragrance emanating from an opened vial.

Nothing can move more slowly than the limping hours when, under the oppressive drifts of snowy years, ennui, the fruit of melancholy lethargy,

takes on the magnitude of immortality.

From now on, living matter, you are nothing more than granite that, fenced in by enigmatic fear,

is sleeping in a dim Saharan desertscape,

or a primeval sphinx that, stricken from the map,

lost to the careless world, with an indignant frown

sings only in the long light of the setting sun. ee

"7 Spleen (ITT)

It’s like 1am the monarch of a rainy land. “Young and yet somehow old, of great means but unmanned, he scorns his sycophantic tutors’ bows and whiles his days away with dogs and other animals. Nothing delights him, not the hunt, not falconry, not subjects dying right before his balcony. The dirty ballads of a favorite buffoon never evoke a chuckle from this mean, ill man. His bed, adorned with fleur-de-lis, is like a grave, and ladies’ maids, to whom all kings are handsome, have no dresses in their wardrobes impudent enough to drag asmile out of this youthful-looking stiff. The alchemist who makes his gold cannotinvent anything that will purge his toxic element, and baths of blood in which the Romans used to lie,’ and which, in their infirm days, royals often try, have never warmed this corpse's lethargy because

his veins, instead of blood, pump green Lethean ooze. f

3 SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL 79 : 78 Spleen (IV)

: ‘When, like a coffin lid, the dense low sky

& weighs ona mind that long ennui has caught, 4 and the horizon’s whole periphery

q pours out a day gloomier than the night,

Bi when all the land becomes a humid cell

| 4 where Hope herself, like an imprisoned bat,

4 beats, with her meek wings, rhythms ona wall j and knocks against a ceiling lost to rot,

q when rainfall stretching out its endless train i looks like the bars of a gigantic jail,

and taciturn and loathsome spiders spin

r webs in the depths of everybody's soul,

bells of asudden swing up in disgust

and fling a frightful clamor at the sky,

while, here and there, an exiled, vagrant ghost f emits, insistently, a whimpering cry.

7 —Long hearses without music, without drums, F. file slowly through me. Hope can only howl

i. (since she has lost) and queenly Anguish comes ~ to plant her black flag in my lowered skull.

79 Obsession

q Vast woods, you scare me like cathedrals. Winds

blow through you like an organ. Qur cursed hearts (endless ; chambers of mourning where the last gasp sounds)

; resonate with your solemn De profundis.

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80 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Ocean, I hate the way you toss. My soul tosses in just that way. What I hearin the massive laughter of the salt-sea swell

is laughter wheezing from a vanquished man.

Llove you, night, but wish your stars weren't there. Their light speaks in a tongue I recognize. Nakedness, darkness—that’s what I prefer,

but even blankness is a canvas where thousands of beings spring out of my eyes. Though vanished, they are quite familiar.

i

80 The Taste for Nothingness

Sad soul, you once were quick to join the fight, but Hope, whose spur at one time urged you on, ‘no longer mounts. There’s no shame. Come lie down,

old stallion who trips on every rut. Give in, my heart, and sleep, sleep like a brute.

Tired old marauder, you have done it all

but now are fit for neither love nor war. Goodbye to flute song and the bugle’s blare. Pleasure, release my dour and brooding soul.

Succulent Spring has lost its pleasant smell. Moment by moment Time envelops me

just as the falling snow conceals a stiff.

I, when I search the round world from above,

can find no shelter or security.

Avalanche, will you carry me away f

; SPLEEN AND THE [IDEAL BY

; 81 The Alchemy of Grief

F Nature, while one man makes you a bright

, fire, another paints you as gloom.

=’ What signifies, to some, the tomb

4 “For others stands for life and light.

§ You, secret Hermes,’ who assist

a and atthe same time frighten me,

4 have made me, like his majesty

a King Midas,’ a sorrowful alchemist.

‘ > ; : a

f I change gold back to slag because

f ‘of you and make a Paradise

3 * a Hell. I find my darling dead

‘in clouds like a shroud above my head, i then, on the sea coast of the sky, :; construct impressive sarcophagi.

, 4 ‘

q 82 Reflected Horror

q What thoughts, descending from 2 pale 4 strange sky as tortured as your fate, s ' pass into your forsaken soul?

¥ Answer me now, you profligate.

7 —Although intemperately avid ; for puzzles and uncertainties, # Irefuse to whine like Ovid

' chased from the Roman paradise.

S Skies torn up like a torn-up shore,

# youare the mirror of my hauteur.

k Your clouds, clad in funeral attire,

82 THE PLOWERS OF EVIL

fly like the hearses of my dreams, and, whenyou glint, Iwitness gleams of the hellish regions I adore.

83 Heautontimoroumenos To J.G.F°

I'll strike you without rage or spite the way a butcher hacks his block, the way that Moses hit the rock.’ For irrigation’s sake, I'll let

oe ‘ the tears of your solicitude wet my Saharan desertscape. My lust for you, a thing of hope, will swim into that saline flood

| just as aship puts out to sea.

The echoes of your sob willroll through my inebriated soul like drumbeats rousing the infantry.

Butam I notadissonantnote

in the celestial symphony,

since Irony voraciously

gnaws on me, eats me, bite by bite?

Yes, [rony is in my voice.

My veins pulse with her poison now. 1am a looking-glass of woe

that shows her her own nastiness.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

[am the dagger and the scar. Iam the slap, Iam the cheek, Iam the limbs, Iam the rack,

the convict, the executioner.

Iam the vampire of my own soul —one of those grand forsaken men doomed to keep laughing on and on, though they can never cracka smile.

84 The Irremediable

ye

A Form, an Idea, an Essence, shot from the azure heavens, falls into the river Styx°—a muddy slough no eye of Heaven can penetrate;

an angel, areckless voyager

drawn by a passion for the maimed,

and deepina gulf that he has dreamed, strains, like aswimmer, toward the shore while, full of anxiety, he fights

against a whirlpool that, circling,

emits a sort of madman’s song while doing dusky pirouettes;

aman, bewitched and wretchedly groping and groping at random, seeks toescape a room brimming with snakes

without a lantern ora key;

83

TWh A . eh i! I y 1 ae | | a. ' a ’ ' | “pti ll : : H | apf! | i | 1, i ti ot it i i ‘1 : . af j 1 i ll r I 1 ft 4 . 14 F , , j. y I di : | : Ij: rt 5 F qi Ail I: t , « II. | | “fh | ' HI ee Is W pS Eyes NW eee | Tee F I AES ee 3y || dil allt] [ASABE : Mi: \: i y TH: f ‘ f i ili : ie be : | : ay | : ; ithe 1 . i ' I | | I |

84 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

damned and benighted, another man descends a stairway without a railing on the edge of a blankness smelling distinctly of ahumid lagoon

from which slime-covered monsters stare

with large bright eyes that render night darker by contrast with the light (they only make themselves appear);

a vessel trapped up near the pole in a hibernal crystal net

forever quests for the only strait that will release it from its jail

—pure symbols, an accurate tableau of an irremediable evil,

they make us confident the Devil does well whatever he aims to do.

II.

A somber and limpid téte-a-téte,

a heart as its own looking-glass! Aclear, dark well of truthfulness in which a pale star drops its light.

Anironic beacon, a torch of Hel! whose glow is diabolic grace,

the only glory and means of peace, —the consciousness of doing ill.

PEA

j 85 The Clock

f. The Clock, a sinister, aloof and stark # deity, points at us and says, “Recall!”

4 _ much like asylphid" saying her goodbye. f Eachinstanteatsa morsel of the joy

F amanis granted for his earthly season.

SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL

4 Soon enough shafts of grief will strike your soul,

a your frightened soul, as if that were their mark.

E . Amisty pleasure glides toward the horizon

=: Three thousand and six hundred times an hour

En thin hand clucks “Recall!,” then moves on fast

a and, like a droning insect, says, “It’s past!

*

Remember! Souviens-toi! Esto memor!’

Let every minute count, you profligate— , You must extract the ingot from the ore.”

' Recall Timeisa gambler. His every throw

.. Recall, as day diminishes, night grows.

Soon will sound the hour when sublime

f eMy trunk has sucked up more of what you were!

: (Alltongues are spoken through my metal throat.)

a wins without cheating. That’s just how it goes.

f The pit thirsts always; the water clock runs low.

Virtue, sacred Chance, and your chaste spouse,

when even Penitence (the hospice house), all say, “Go on, you coward. Die. It's time.”

&

85

PARISIAN SCENES

| 86 Landscape

- Soas to write my eclogues’ in the most chaste way,

I want, like an astrologer, to be up high,

far up among the clock towers. Lying lost in dreams,

I would take in the church bells’ solemn windborne hymns. q Chin propped on either hand, I would observe the shops where people sing and chatter, and the chimney tops,

the belfries, all the city's masts, and that vast sky

that turns eternity into a reverie.

Yes, it is sweet to see, far off across the gloom, a gtar birthed in the blue, alanternin aroom, rivers of smoke and soot ascending through the air g and the anemic spell the moon casts everywhere. Spring, summer, autumn—I will watch them come and go, and then, when winter drags in its unvarying snow, unsash the drapery, lock up the shutters tight and build my fairy palaces indoors all night. There I will dream of pleasure-gardens, blue horizons, fountains weeping into alabaster basins, kisses, songbirds at twilight and the break of day, and Idylis’ when they most suggest naiveté. Riot raging vainly against my window glass « will fail to make me look up from my desk, because . Iwill be deep inside the art of conjuring, |. allofmy own volition, a fantastic spri ng, . extracting sunshine from my heart and making warm : days out of my tempestuous intellectual storm.

87 TheSun

{| Allthrough this worn-out neighborhood, where cottages E wear shutters to conceal clandestine lecheries,

J

|

Hil

|

|

ml ' b | | ! i 4 Wey Thy

il +5 il

: |. . ’ | a i if th i | ¥ ‘ vk | 4 4 a

90 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

just as the ficrce sun pummels with redoubled heat both cityscape and countryside, rooftops and wheat,

I daily take a solitary walk to hone

my fencing wit. I search for words beneath a stone,

sniff inte corners for the gamble of arhyme,

and find, with luck, a line I've dreamed a long, long time.

Our wholesome father, the destroyer of chlorosis, falls on the fields and rouses worms as well.as roses.

He breaks angst down and blows it toward the big Above.

He stuffs a brain with honey, as he does a hive.

He is the one who breathes new life into old men condemned to crutches till they smile and laugh again like little girls. He authorizes plants to sprout

in those immortal souls that live to germinate.

When, like a poet, he descends on cities, he invests even the vilest things with dignity

and, king-like, enters, without retinue or noise, all of the hospitals, all of the palaces.

88 Toa Red-Haired Beggar Girl

White-skinned girl with auburn hair, your dress is tattered here and there, and every hole shows me you are both fair and poor.

Sickly poet that I am, [see myself in your sickly frame. Your ginger and befreckled complexion

holds much attraction.

fa AS ee Cee Ae, ta.

-—- 5 tise - - i,

an her

PARISIAN SCENES

& You wear your thick clogs better than the legendary sort of queen

would wear a pair of boots made of

f; much fancier stuff.

| y Instead of the patched rags you have on, q may a flounced and majestic gown

& endow you witha train that trails

over your heels.

B Instead of those decrepit socks,

sport, for the lusty eyes of rakes,

| ae j a bright and garter-belted knife

a. along your calf.

! 4 f? ‘Let that ineptly tied brassiere

t' reveal, to pleasure our desire,

fee your twin breasts, as illustrious

FE. as shining eyes.

4 Let your arms that make men pray 4 all your clothes be stripped away

| 7 defiantly fight off the demands

§ of roguish hands.

A Lovers bound by your fetters offer

: - you presents: pearls that divers recover § from beautiful waters and ballads scored E by Belleau the Bard.

bad

4 And there are lowborn rhymers, too, #. who dash off poetry for you + s after discovering, under astair,

¥. ashoe you wear.

91

92 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

More than one love-smitten lord, more than one page boy and Ronsard’* will turn into peepers staking out your airy hut.

In your bedroom you would enjoy far more kisses than fleurs-de-lis. You have the power to entrance past kings of France

—Meanwhile you have to beg to eat rotten refuse handed out from some saloon’s back-alley door,

run-down Véfour.

While walking about, you always eye the cheapest sort of jewelry.

Sorry I can’t afford to bestow

those gifts on you!

Go, then, without any ornament,

no pearls, no diamonds, no rich scent, only, my beauty, your naked body abroad in the city!

89 TheSwan

For Victor Hugo’

I.

PARISIAN SCENES 93

B had quickened in my fecund recollection, as | walked through the modern Carrousel.’ q The old Paris is gone. A town’s complexion,

a like human hearts, never stays put at all.

4 I picture in my mind the camp of shacks, -

4 the rough-hewn column drums and capitals,

q the weeds, the puddles mossing up huge blocks | iq and mirroring the-bric-a-brac and frills.

4 The place once liosted a menagerie, 4 and here’s what I saw there at just the hour 4 when Work wakes up and greets the cool black sky

Fe apd sweepers push dust storms into the air:

2 swan, who had somehow found freedom, passed | 4 _ clumsily, wings laid flat, along the walk.

: His wealth of feathers draggled in the dust.

4 Right by a ditch, he opened up his beak.

f Flapping excitedly, wings on the ground,

4 heart roused by lakes he once was giddy with,

a he said, “Come on and rain, sky! Thunder, sound!” f Iseehimasa strange and fatal myth.

Toward the ironic sky, as in some book of Ovid, toward the cruel blue, his head kept bobbing up atopashakyneck =! as if he were abominating God!

if,

My thoughts all turn to you, Andromache’— Though Paris changes, nothing in my sorry

that little stream, the mournful looking-glass state has budged. Blocks, palaces tacked on, that caught your whole widowhood’s majesty, old districts, all to me are allegory.

the tears you shed to feed that “Simois” My dear remembrances weigh more than stone.

—a = te =~ —S OSE = = Se == = ——— ————

—=— =

——— oe Se eS <n

my

94 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Asight outside the Louvre hits home: I think of that big swan who struggled in his woe, . an exile, asublime and antic thing consumed by longing, and I think of you,

Andromache, torn from a husband's love, base property of Pyrrhus’s rough pride, head bowed to rave beside an empty oTave,

widow of Hector, Helenus's bride.

[think of a black girl, tubercular,

searching with tired eyes, as she slogs through mud, for palms she knewin Africa somewhere

behind a massive barrier of cloud;

of all deprived of something they may not tind ever, ever again—whose tears are streams, who suck a grief-milk from the she-wolf’s tit;

of skinny orphans, of decaying blooms. Thus in the woods that house my exiled soul, hoary Remembrance blares a cri de coeur!

I think of sailors stranded on an isle,

of captives, the defeated... many more!

90 TheSeven Old Men For Victor Hugo”

Dream-stuffed and ever-swarming cityscape where ghosts by daylight tug at wanderers,

_ everywhere mysteries run much like the sap

that fills this great metropolis’s sewers.

PARISIAN SCENES

q One morning, while I strolled a bleak back road, 3 houses, because of mist, looked very tall, E looked much like harbors on the riverside. 4 The mise-en-scéne was like an actor’s soul. q A filthy pale miasma filled the place. i While I was walking, with a virtuous heart's ! courage to fight against my laziness, a through district streets disturbed by rumbling carts,

4 all in a flash a codger who had on

4 rags that were look-alikes of stormy skies

a and might have made much alms come raining down f if dvil didn’t glitter in his eyes

E appeared to me. I'd say his eyes were rife

F with bile; his gaze, like frost, was sharp and hoar. b His polished beard was pointed like a knife,

q and it was like the one that Judas wore.

:

fF He seemed to be less bent than cutin half.

; His spine was pointed opposite his feet

; so thatthe cane on which he propped himself

q gave him the attitude and awkward gait

| ofsome ill beast, or a three-legged Jew.

t: He made his chamsy way through snow and smut : as if his shoes trod on the dead below,

4 not through indifference of it all, but hate.

q Asecond followed—beard, back, eyes, rags, cane, # no different traits—out of the selfsame Hell. f This look-alike grim centenarian

¥ tramped in the same way toward their secret goal.

95

a at ge &

-_ ATS a A See = +e eee ce

=

ao me: —————-— =—— Ps *

ry agen —_—— SS = =. = = — — = =

96 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

What person out there had been making fun of me? What wicked con job was in play? Thad to see all seven, one by one—

one wretched codger multiplied that way.

All who would laugh at my excited state

and who are not struck cold by them like me ought to consider that, despite their gait, they looked like creatures of eternity.

How could! see an eighth one and go on living—another look-alike, afoul

phoenix, his own father, his own son?

—I turned away from that cortege from Hell.

All worked up, like a double-visioned souse,

I shuffled home and shut the door, awestruck, trembling and ill, my spirit feverous,

moved by the mystery of that freakish shock.

My reason vainly tried to grasp the helm.

The keen storm mocked me with its every blast and, as when monstrous storm winds overwhelm a dancing frigate, I had lost my mast!

91 The Little Old Ladies For Victor Hugo"

I,

Deep in the windings of a capital where even horror has some elegance, I often serve a fatal whim and tail

quaint and decaying human specimens.

PARISIAN SCENES 97

= These wrecks were women at an earlier time, Lais’ or Eponine’ Though cracked misfits,

; 4 they stil] have souls. We ought to cherish them. q : ' Under their tattered wraps and petticoats,

a they creep along, lashed bya wicked gale, Ze’ or cower as an omnibus goes past.

| q They clutch a floral bag or reticule

a I _ as ifit were aremnantileft by Christ.

dj Like marionettes, they shamble to and fro

; 4 or drag themselves along like wounded things # fi: or do a dance without intending to,

: - gad bells that aremorseless demon rings. mm +

| F - Though tired, their eyes can penetrate like drills WE oor shine like brimming potholes in the street. | They are the bright eyes ofa gi rl who trills _ with sudden awe at anything that’s bright.

4 Think why a coffin for a crone should be 3 as small as one in which a child is placed. 4 Thus witty Death sets up a simile

thatis in crazed and captivating taste.

, So when Isee some feeble phantom straying through swarming Paris, lostin the Oran hub, Lalways think this shatterable being ,

is gently heading back into her crib,

unless, distracted by geometry, .

Isee, in each discordant warp and twist, how woodworkers will have to modify

: the boxes where such stiffs will come to rest.

98 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL PARISIAN SCENES 99

Iv. Youshufile on, without complaint, outdoors

—Their eyes are pits filled with a million tears, crucibles where a once-hot ore abates...

The mystery of them powerfully allures through the disorder of the teeming town— the man who sucks at Tribulation’s teats. - mothers with bleeding hearts, great saints and whores whose names, in bygone days, the world had known. II.

Vestal virgin’ of the gambling house; You who were full of beauty and renown priestess of comedy whose name the dead ‘no one remembers now. A drunk reviles announcer knows; celebrity who was : your passing with a mock-seductive line;

everyone's pleasure in Tivoli’s shade"— q a child does antic dances at your heels. _ Backs hunched, shrunk shades, and keeping to the walls, you are ashamed of living on and on. Nobody says hello to you, doomed souls, f, human debris, ripe for oblivion.

they daze me. But among these fallen things some squeeze a share of honey from their grief: they ask Devotion, who has lent them wings,

to lift them up; they call him Hippogrift.’

4 . One woman whom the state trained in defeat; : But here I am, with ever-restless eyes

another whom her husband pushed too far: and tender feelings, watching over you

one, a Madonna martyred by her brat; q as though I were your father. How marvelous!

the tears of each could fill a reservoir. I taste a secret joy you do not know:

Il.

4 Isee your youthful passions just beginning; ‘i Such ancient ladies I have walked behind!

‘ Iseeyour sad or sunny days gone by. Isaw one, as the sun was going down Heart multiplied, I share in all your sinning. and gushing crimson as if from a wound, Ifeel your many virtues shine on me.

pensively settle on a bench alone

el --- E = tr Ts

O wreckage, O my kin, my fellow brains,

to hear a concert, rich in brass, the sort each evening I say good night to you.

a tian Ui 7 = — =

that soldiers sometimes put on in a park What fate is yours, octogenarians, at dusk, the sort that charge the civic heart 4 O Eves, crushed by the Lord God’s dreadful claw?

with roused feelings and a heroic spark.

Upright and animated by the cause,

she avidly inhaled the warlike tune.

Her eyes gleamed like an ancient eagle's eyes. Her marble brow begged for a laurel crown.

| q | i a nH ' : | al | it f

vA Vet |

100 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

92 The Blind

Just look at them: how horrible they are!

Absurd as mannequins, repulsive, they sleepwalk through life in a peculiar way, darting their orbs of night one knows not where.

Their eyes, in which no spark of life is found, seem to be aimed far off into the sky.

One doesn't ever see them dreamily

direct their heavy noggins toward the ground.

They scuff through days of darkness without bound, the kin of endless silence. City, as you shout and laugh and trumpet everywhere,

you profligate, look how I shufile—yes, I who am even more dazed than the blind. I say, “What are they looking for up there?”

93 Toa Woman Passing

The street around me thundered on and on. Atall, slim, regal woman in profound mourning went by me, while her jeweled hand held up the hem and flounces of her gown.

Her fine, lithe legs displayed a marble poise. Thrilled as a drunk, [I sucked out of her eyes— fair heavens in which hurricanes arise—

seductive sweetnesses and killing joys.

A lightning flash... then darkness!—Fleeting belle whose gaze rejuvenated me, shall I see you no more before oblivion?

E- with all of your open musculature,

PARISIAN SCENES

: Far elsewhere! Too late! Never! I cannot say | where you have fled, nor you where I have gone. : You whom I might have loved—you knew it well!

94 Skeleton Laborers

x J.

q Anatomical plates are sold

3 in stalls along the dusty docks

4 where lots and lots of cadaverous books

# sleep their sleep like the mummies of old.

4 The old engraver’s distinctive skill

i, and a pervasive mood of gloom

i render them, though they are quite grim, S incontrovertibly beautiful.

| f One sees in these mysterious scenes

4 (and it makes their horrors still more wild), * like laborers working in a field,

f flayed frames and digging skeletons,

FIL ; Out of the soil youare breaking there, f resigned and melancholy drones,

with all the effort of your spines, i

%

. tell us what your harvest might be. Convicts recovered from the slab,

what farmer hired you for the job

’ of filling up his granary?

102 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Do you reveal (a vivid sign

of the destiny we soon will reach)

we'll lack, when buried in a ditch,

the sleep we were told would be our own?

Nothingness is treacherous. Even Death is a deceiver.

Alas, forever and ever and ever, work may be awaiting us

in some anonymous estate:

to scratch up acres, clod by clod and drive the insubordinate spade under our bare and bloody feet?

95 Twilight

Sweet evening, friendly to the cutpurse, like a wolf or an accomplice, enters. Shutting on itself,

the sky becomes a massive cell with no great haste, and restless man transforms into a feral beast.

Evening, kind evening, keenly counted on by all

those whose undissembling arms can say: “We've toiled our toil

today!” Yes, it is dusk that offers solace to

those spirits who must chew a savage sort of woe:

the tired but stubborn scholar with his heavy head;

the wrecked construction worker sinking into bed. Meanwhile, foul fiends are slow to wake but wake again heavily in the atmosphere like businessmen.

Flying, they bump the eaves and shutters of the houses. Against the streetlamps’ gleamings, taunted by the breezes, Prostitution, madame of the back streets, blazes.

She opens up her ever-busy enterprises.

4 PARISIAN SCENES f Much like a hostile army ona sneak attack, # she drains the bad parts of the city, block by block. :. She operates inside these quarters made of mud

R just as a parasite robs people of their food.

One has to hear a kitchen hissing here and there,

; a blaring orchestra, a screeching theater.

’ The tables of the inns where gamblers play roulette & are full of sluts and charlatans and all that set.

3 Remorseless thugs who never pardon anyone

; are getting ready to go back to work again—

4 they gently jimmy doors, crack open safes, so as

q to live a few days more and dress their mistresses.

e Squi, pull yourself together in this serious time 8 andclose your ears, block out the shrillness of the slime. birnis: is the hour when sick men gasp most poignantly— 4 * but black night grasps their throats and no one hears them cry. Each of them has been marked to fillan unmarked plot. f Their hospital is full of coughing. They do not '’ need to consider soup with spices anymore

q or evenings with a loving friend beside the fire.

Yes, most of them have not enjoyed even a dull f hearth light; yes, most of them have never lived at all.

| 96 Gambling ; In faded armchairs, pale, old courtesans with painted brows and eyes demure but fierce simpered so as to make the garish stones and metals tinkle in their withered ears.

7 Around the green felt there were lipless faces, lips without any color, toothless jaws,

103

104 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

and fingers palsied by accursed diseases fumbling through a pocket or heaving dress.

Chandeliers (how begrimed the ceiling was!) and giant lanterns cast a gaudy glare over the dusky and distinguished brows

of poets, who waste their sweat and earnings there.

There, in a dream, I saw this very scene unfold before my visionary eyes.

I, in a corner of that quiet den,

leaned in and felt cold, mute and envious

both of the gentlemen’s tenacious passion and of the old harlots’ sepulchral mirth. That they should vend in such a jolly fashion beauty or honor—all that they were worth!

I shuddered at my envy of that lot

dashing so rashly into the abyss.

Drunk on their own blood, they choose to set pain over death, Hell over nothingness.

97 Danse Macabre’

To Ernest Christophe”

Much like the living, she enjoys her height. She has a kerchief, gloves and many flowers. She has the grace and balance that befit

a gaunt coquette who puts on lavish airs.

At dances does one see a build so taut? Her long gown, in a grand majestic style,

1 “i

f

ie '

g ty.

th

a

Ff:

b a “E

. invigorate your living carrion

PARISIAN SCENES

flows with abandon toward an arid foot pinched in a pom-pommed, rose-like kitten heel.

The frill that runs along her clavicle,

_ like some lewd river passing over rocks,

demurely shields from public ridicule

the funerary turn-ons of her sex.

¥ Her eyes are sockets of oblivion.

| : Her skull,-artfully dressed in irises,

q gingerly sways atop her jutting spine.

: The charm of wildly stylized nothingness!

: Some passersby will call you a “cartoon,”

bit how can they, the wholly flesh-obsessed,

o fathom the grandeur of a skeleton?

Superb bones, you are much more to my taste!

You with your grimace, do you hope to ruin life’s festival? Does some extinct love still

# and drive you toward the human carnival?

a?

; Will you expel that dark, insulting dream

;, with singing violins and candle glow?

4 And will you use your fresh libidinous stream 4 to quench the Hell that burns inside of you?

i

FO endless pit of foolishness and crime, « F- Ooldand constant sorrow’s crucible,

} I see the ever-hungry serpent climb

| from ribs resembling a latticed wall.

I fear your coquetry will never win . any trophy truly worthy of it.

105

106 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Who of these mortals gets it's all for fun? Only the strong can bear the charms of fright.

Vertigo spirals from your absent eyes,

pits full of horrid thoughts. What beau could join the dance with you and not puke when he sees those rows of teeth fixed in a constant grin?

But who has not embraced a sack of bones? Who has not eaten from a sepulcher?

What good are clothes, makeup and luscious scents?

Disgust just shows how fine prudes think they are.

Noseless geisha, irresistible slut,

tell all those whiny dancing fools the truth: “Proud pretty ones, though you put on a coat of rouge and talc, you wholly reek of death.

Redolent skeletons, plucked dandies, blown Antinotises,’ snowy-haired manwhores—

the danse macabre whirls round and round and soon will sweep you off to never-heard-of shores.

From torrid Ganges to the frigid Seine the leaping, gasping mortals do not see the angel's trumpet like an all-black gun aimed at them from above, maliciously.

Death sees you writhing, foolish Humankind, under whatever sun you chance to be.

Quite often, just like you, she makes a blend of uncut craziness and irony.”

PARISIAN SCENES

{ 98 The Love of Lying

‘ When I see you walk by, my lazy one, my dear,

; accompanied by music bouncing off the ceiling, : poising harmonious attractions in the air

| and showing, in your eyes, an apathetic feeling,

4 when I consider, by the gaslight’s flames, your wan forehead embellished only with your wan allure | | : as evening torches offer up a sort of dawn,

and find your eyes as striking as in portraiture,

q I think, “How lovely she is! How bizarrely fresh!

' ; Ayhick and royal tower, massive recollection,

f. crowns her, and her heart, bruised as mellow peach, 7 u is ripe, just like her flesh, for masterful affection.”

q Are you the fruit of fall, when the best flavor oozes?

q A standing funeral vase that waits for mourners’ tears? _ Ascent that makes us dream of faraway oases?

4 A pillow that caresses? A bouquet of flowers?

: - Iknow that there are eyes, depressive and jejune

# eyes, that contain no secrets, no dear mystery,

f: each like an empty locket or a looted shrine,

4 more empty, more profound than you yourself, O sky.

f Butisn'tit sufficient that your lovely facé

reanimates a heart that runs from what is true?

; Whocares aboutyour lethargy and foolishness?

Beauty, you mask, you ornament, I worship you!

a

107

108 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

99 Istillrecall the little whitewashed lodging where.. :

I still recall the little whitewashed lodging where we lived in peace, just off a major thoroughfare.

A plaster Pomona and an aging Queen of Love’ concealed their naked bodies in our garden grove, and the august and ruddy sun, at twilight, shone kaleidoscopic colors through the windowpane.

He seemed, a giant eye in the inquiring sky,

to watch us as we ate our long meals silently

and spread, across the worsted curtains and cut-rate tablecloth, an effulgence fine as candlelight.

100 Think of my kind old nurse you once were jealous of...

Think of my kind old nurse’ you once were jealous of, the one who sleeps the long sleep in a humble grave.

We two together ought to give her a bouquet.

The dead, the sorry dead, they suffer terribly.

Yes, when October cracks the boughs of trees and tosses leaves in a sad, sad way on final resting places,

they should consider us, the living folk, ingrates because we lie here sleeping warmly in our sheets, while they, consumed by beasts of the imagination, without a partner, without lively conversation, decaying carcasses, devoured by maggots, frozen,

feel themselves filtering the snow when winter blows in. Time passes, and no friend, no relative, comes back

to lay memorial flowers on the funeral plaque.

Sometimes at evening while the logs sing on and on, I see her sitting calmly on the ottoman

or find her on acold blue midnight in December standing in a corner of my dark bedchamber.

PARISIAN SCENES

4 What could I offer to this very pious shade,

this somber spirit who comes from her eternal bed to watch once more the grown-up child she worked to raise? Ilook on as the tears fall from her hollow eyes.

101 Mists and Rains

O waning autumn, winter, springtime drenched in mud, I give you, sleepy days, love and this accolade

because, just like today, you swathe my heart and mind in vague crepe and the odor of the funeral mound.

| 4 In that vast grassland where the cold southwester plays

. and all night long the wavering wind.vane makes hoarse noise, 4 tv my spirit spreads its pair of raven wings much farther

i than later in the spring, when there is tepid weather.

O seasons sunkin pallor, O our climate queens, nothing is sweeter to a gloomy heart like mine ' (the sort of heart where snow has long been falling) than

™ af

# your permanent and sallow dampening of light, 1 —uniless it is two lovers deadening the pains

® of living, ina chance bed, on a moonless night.

102 Parisian Dream For Constantin Guys”

I. + 4 The distant vision I recall

q of awe-inspiring scenery

q nobody ever saw for real

§ this morning still entrances me.

109

110 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Sleep is often incredible.

I, by a singular caprice,

had banished from that spectacle Nature’s irregularities.

A painter on fire with my mastery, I savored everywhere in the scene the ravishing monotony

of flowing water, metal and stone.

This Babel of stairways and colonnades was like an endless palace filled

with water basins and cascades

flowing with dull or burnished gold.

Like curtains made of precious stones, the intimidating waterfalls

seemed to be hanging in suspense along the murals in the walls.

Stone columns instead of trees in a wood gathered around pools smooth as glass. In them colossal naiads’ could

baskin aself-admiring gaze.

Between the green and crimson slips arches of indigo water came jetting out of a million pipes and flowed toward my creation’s rim.

A tide of magical combers wore

away at unknown kinds of rock,

and massive looking-glasses there admired the world that they gave back.

PARISIAN SCENES

y: Nonchalant and taciturn, F. ariver Ganges inthe sky B. poured treasure from a bottomless urn

Hq into a diamond-sparkling sea.

3 Architect of a fantastic show,

; | Lordered (a majestic whim)

} a subjugated sea to flow

K out of agem-encrusted flume.

: 4 \

} Everything, even the darkest hues,

: seemed to be full of radiance.

The various liquids wore a glaze

4 because of the way that crystal shines.. .

B No clusters of stars, no sun, no moon f; appeared anywhere in that sky—.

ee “no, what lit that scene of mine

¥ p. was the blazing fire inside of me.

AU

me

-—"4

4 There was, above this universe

B: replete with things for eyes to see,

i. what offered nothing tothe ears— 4 ‘the silence of eternity.

§ TL

But, open now, my eyes of fire f could see the horror of my den. ; I felt my tribulations were ¥ : . aneedle entering my brain.

; b The clock announced the hour was noon— |. twelve brutal strokes came, one by one.

E Celestial gloom came pouring down

BS over this grieving world we're in.

111

112 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

103 Morning Twilight

Reveille sounded through the barracks’ marching ground,

and lanterns flickered in the early morning wind.

It was the hour when swarms of noxious reveries

kept suntanned young men twisting on their mattresses, when, like a bloody, bulging, palpitating eye,

the house lamp cast a tinge of crimson on the day,

when spirits, which the weight of flesh was pressing down, mimicked the struggles of the lamplight and the dawn, when, like a tear-stained face wiped by the breeze, the air brimmed with the trembling of things that rise, that soar.

Man tired of writing; woman tired of making love.

Houses began to rouse; smoke rose above a roof. Women of pleasure, still exceedingly made up,

just went on sleeping, mouths agape, a stupid sleep. Poor women dragged along their cold and sickly dugs, blew on their fingernails, blew on the smoldering logs. It was the hour when, behind thin, frozen doors, women who were in labor started suffering worse.

As if it were a blood-choked sob, a rooster’s cry,

off in the distance, cut into the misty sky.

Fog bathed the buildings, even bathed the hospice house where, room by room, the inmates, in their final throes, rattled their lives away, consumptive, cough by cough.

Drunks stumbled home at last, scarred by the wars of love.

Aurora, trembling in her robe of red and green, slowly advanced along the still-deserted Seine, and somber Paris rubbed the slumber from his eyes

and gathered up his tools, old workman that he is.

"4 4 4 .

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a - — = i — = Es = = = = = = : = _— ae = "ele ae —— a = = = == = === rR

(a

f : | il | :

5) . 104 TheSoul of Wine

a!

j Wine’s soul, from bottles, sang a song one night: 4 “CO outcast man, for your sake, I release,

¢ outofthe wax and glass that hold me tight,

| amelody of light and friendliness.

q I know you need, out onasunny hill,

4 to grunt and sweat beneath a brutal sun

. when you conceive my life and birth my soul. : I'm grateful to you. I won't let you down, YG

; _ since I feel great delight when I can dive K into the gullet of a working hand. I'm happy with his stomach as my grave

+ much more than some cold cellar underground.

And do you hear the Sunday songs, the hope

| forever rising from my pulsing breast? | You, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up, E will praise me. I will put your cares to rest.

e I'lllight the eyes of your enraptured wite;

‘ I'll give great health and fervor to your son - and serve, for this frail wrestler with life,

Pas oil that makes his muscles hot to win.

You there and I, seed of 2 deathless Sower,

4 ambrosia of the earth, will soon be one,

+ and poetry, conceived by our amour,

3 will shoot toward God like flowers on the vine.”

116 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL 2 =a

105 The Ragpickers’ Wine

Often, beneath a streetlamp’s crimson glamour, as

a stiff wind skews the flame and beats against the glass, deep in a worn-out suburb’s heart, a muddy maze where humankind is swarming, thundering en masse,

one sees a coughing ragpicker approach, unwell, stumbling, as poets tend to do, against a wall: Without the slightest worry about policemen’s spies, he heartily propounds some glorious enterprise.

Huffing and cussing, he proposes lofty laws, vanquishes evildoers, saves the victims’ days and, underneath a heaven like a pulpit, grows inebriated on his glowing righteousness.

Yes, and these men tormented by domestic strife, racked by declining years, scarred by the cuts of life, burdened and bowing underneath a massive load, men who are sprawling Paris's ejected cud,

f just keep on showing up, redolent of the bottle, they and their boon companions, marked by years of battle, mustaches drooping much like curtains turned to rags. Triumphal arches, lovely flowers and brilliant flags,

as if invoked by magic, sprout in front of them

and, in the orgiastic pandemonium

‘ of cris de coeur and bugles, snare drums and the sun, they magnify a love-drunk people with renown.

And so it is throughout the fickle human race

wine flows with pure gold, like the dazzling Pactolus.’ Wine sings its great adventures through our human throats and, like a proper king, rules by its benefits.

*

WINE

| Regretting what he had contrived, God gave us sleep f to drown out bitterness, to serve as an escape

for, wretched geezers who are dying all alone.

Man added Wine, the sacred offspring of the Sun.

‘“

106 The Murderer’s Wine

I'm free at last! My wife is gone.

3 Now I can drink to my heart’s content. a When Icame home without a cent, her nagging cut me to the bone.

‘ Now Iam happy asa prince, q The sky is fair, the air is pure. - Back in the tranquil season before 4 the breach, my joy was this intense.

4 To slake the thirst consuming me,

& I'dneed to have my ex-wife's tomb

' filled with wine up to the brim.

| 4 That was a hard, hard thing to say.

| , I threw my wife into a pit

p’ and then rained down around her head 4 Some stones stacked up around the side. 4 V'll try hard—maybe I'll forget.

; inthe name of those sentimental vows y that swear true lovers can’t be split,

Bto make us just as when we met

P in our first time of drunkenness,

a begged her for a rendezvous

. 8ne night on a forgotten road.

117

i

gf 118 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Since we're all crazy in the head, she came. A crazy thing to do.

She wag, guess, still pretty enough, though worn out with the years, and I, Tloved her way too much. That’s why told her: “Get out of this life.”

Nobody gets me. Not one sot

out of a thousand inebriates dreams even on his maudlin nights of making wine a winding-shect.

That invincible company,

much like machines made out of steel, all winter and spring, summer and fall, have never felt what love can be:

the darkling way it entertains, its infernal procession of commotion, its tears on tears, its flasks of poison,

its rattlings of bones and chains.

Well, here ] am—alone now, freed. lm going to get dead drunk tonight, then, without pity or regret,

make my bed on the side of the road

and sleep as any mongrel might. Some thick-wheeled chariot with a load of broken stones and civic mud,

some random vehicle is quite

welcome to crush my guilty head, divide me on the thoroughfare.

I care for myself as much as I care about the Devil, Faith and God.

107 Thé Loner’s Wine

A jolly woman's tantalizing gaze

4 . gliding toward us like the pale-beamed moon

shimmering on a trembling lagoon when she, remotely, bathes her gorgeousness;

the last money bag in a gambler’s hand; a wanton kiss from skinny Adeline; music as poignant as a manin pain °

from far off wails, a warm, wearying sound—

if deep bottle, none of that can match the keen

elixir that your plump and fruitful sides offer the pious poet’s ruined soul.

i You give him youth, promise and life to swill

—and pride, the treasury of bankrupt men, that makes us glorious and like the gods!

108 The Lovers’ Wine

a z. The air is dazzling today! ® Let's leap on steeds of Cabernet & and, without bridles, without spurs,

E’ ride‘a sublime and eccentric course.

| e Up in the crystal blue of dawn, fy like two seraphim seized by one

4 _ Telentless fever, by one vision,

q let’s fly toward a remote delusion!

WINE

119

ne ees el ee ee ne ee ne ene ee ne en ee ee ee ae a, ee ee eer rrrC‘(‘Cyy®y:CCCCCCQCOWdsCCSNCCtCC— —ts—CSti‘CssCiti‘(C“NCNCOC#Cdsésds ee rr—“ r—Csis

120 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Comfortably balanced on the wings of a vigilant typhoon,

we'll gallop, sister, side by side,

and stop at nothing as we glide, in parallel delirium,

beyond belief into a dream.

a R109 Destruction “4

th & He swims around me like the ghost of air. ‘ .. breathe him, and he lights a fire inside me

hand fills me up with damnable desire.

4 Knowing my love of art, he sometimes uses ; » highly captivating female shapes

4 and then, with hypocritical excuses,

- offers up heinous poisons to my lips.

F ' That’s how he brings me, tired, in a daze, @ farther from God's gaze into desert lands— B: relentless prairies subject to Ennui.

B Later he holds up to my muddled eyes

k contaminated garments, open wounds,

y and Devastation's bloody panoply.

110 AMartyr

4 A Drawing by an Unknown Master"

Framed by flasks and brightly chased lamé, by lots of sumptuous furniture,

by statues, prints and fragrant negligee

that reaches, richly, to the floor,

f insidearoom that, like a greenhouse, is stuffy and warm and rank with death,

exhale a final fragrant breath,

m\ The Fiend is always stirring here beside me.

a place where fading flowers, entombed in glass,

4 #£hews i *»

124 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

a headless corpse is spilling like a stream over a pillow on a bed

vermilion blood flow, which the sheets consume

with a voracious meadow’s greed.

Like pale dreams mothered by oblivion (visions that put our eyes in.chains),

the head, with its abundant jet-black mane lit, here and there, by precious stones,

lies, like a vase stuffed full of buttercups, on the nightstand. A thoughtless gaze

as vague and empty as the dusk, escapes from open and contorted eyes.

The naked torso on the bed displays, wantonly and without the blot

of shame, the hushed and fatal gorgeousness that nature has bestowed onit.

A pink stocking adorned with golden clocks, hangs on her like a souvenir;

a garter with enkindled vision looks outward with a diamond stare.

The curious aspect of this loneliness, much like the portrait on the wall with eyes just as alluring as her pose, reveals a dark and culpable

affair, rejected wanton revelries

and kisses from satanic lips

in which those fallen angels would rejoice from the embroidery of the drapes.

FLOWERS GF EVIL

F Yet, when one looks closely at the taste

| 4 of collarbone and lissome shoulder,

4 the pointed haunch, the swivel in the waist, . as in an aggravated adder,

; , how young she is! —Did her exhausted mind 4 and senses chewed by tedium

F open her up to acorrupting band

; F of lusts? Did she encourage them?

E Did that much cherished man, that stubborn lover » whom you could not, while living, sate,

_ over your passive, welcoming cadaver,

E fulfill his giant appetite?

q )

f Tell me, you stinking stiff! And did he seize

b your hair with trembling fingertips,

f hold you aloft and plant his last goodbyes "as kisses on your frigid lips?

q | —Far from the loud world and insulting throng, far from the prying of police, E sicep well in your mysterious tomb, strange thing. q f I pray that you can restin peace.

E Your groom js out there, but the sight of you F haunts him wherever he lays his head. F Surely, like you yourself, he will be true q 8 and staunch until he, too, is dead.

125

~ + ae

7 2 1 126 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL 110x Lesbos’

Mother of Greek delights and Roman fun, Lesbos, where kisses, sad or rapturous, fresh as casabas, torrid as the sun, are ornaments to nights and famous days, mother of Greek delights and Roman fun.

Lesbos, where kisses are like waterfalls

that dash, boldly, into oblivion

and plummet, sighing, chafing with a pulse, stormy and secret, swarming on and on, Lesbos, where kisses are like waterfalls.

Lesbos, where prostitutes desire each other, and every sigh is answered with the same. Stars in the firmament adore you rather

than Paphos, and Venus envies Sappho's fame, Lesbos, where prostitutes desire each other. Lesbos, land of slow and sultry nights !

which make young females with their hollow eyes see, in their mirrors, childless delights.

They stroke the fruit of their own youthfulness, Lesbos, land of slow and sultry nights.

Let age-old Plato’ frown his grumpy face. Your pardon is the excess of your kisses, queen of a luscious realm, a kindly place. Your pardon is your never-ending blisses. Let age-old Plato frown his grumpy face.

Your pardon is the endless martyrdom inflicted always on the amorous who have been tempted far away from home

% &

FLOWERS OF EVIL

_ by radiant smiles, half glimpsed in other skies. i: Your pardon is the endless martyrdom.

Pb “A

: Lesbos, who would condemn your ways? Which god? ‘ _ Who would condemn your brow, wan with travail,

! because his scales had failed to weigh the flood

f of tears you pour into the salt-sea swell.

Lesbos, who would condemn your ways? Which god? ; What is the good of laws, unjust or just?

f Virgins with holy hearts, the island’s fame,

q your faith, like every other, is august,

| and love will laugh both Heaven and Hell to shame. - f Whatis the good of laws, unjust or just?

if

q Lesbos, from all the rest, selected me

| to sing the secrets of her girls in bloom.

1 In childhood I observed their mystery—

1, unending laughter mixed with tears of gloom. : Lesbos, from all the rest, selected me.

} Since then I look out from Leucadia’s top,

{ asentry with a penctrating gaze

a who scans for any sort of passing ship

q j whose distant outline bobs against the skies. m Since then I look out from Leucadia’s top

_ to find out if the ocean has remorse,

q and if, to echoes which the rocks have kept,

4 it will return the night to Lesbos, which adores » the body of Sappho ever since she leapt

* to find out if the ocean has remorse.

a. Of manly Sappho, lover, poetess, - 4 - more beautiful than Venus, though quite pale

127

128 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

i ° . —her blue eyes lost to Sappho’s darker eyes, eyes with dark circles, traced by the travail

of manly Sappho, lover, poetess.

—Fairer than Venus rising on the world

and spreading out a wealth of self-possession and all the radiance of her blond hair curled over the waters of her father Ocean;

fairer than Venus rising on the world.

—Sappho broke the rules and died the day that, to insult her own society,

she made her flesh a pasture when she lay beneath a brute who was the penalty

for her who broke the rules. She died that day.

Ages have passed, and still the island grieves.

Yes, though the whole world keeps on honoring her, it still howls nightly as the tempest raves

with thunder echoed by its empty shore.

Ages have passed, and still the island grieves.

f

Lloxx The Damned Women: Delphine and Hippolyta’

Under a fading lantern’s pallid light,

on cushions drenched in scent, Hippolyta was dreaming of the strong caresses that had raised her curtain of naiveté.

The girl was seeking, out of storm-tossed eyes, clear skies of innocence, now far away,

just as, at noon, a traveler reviews

the journey he has made since break of day.

FLOWERS OF EVIL 129

| K Her listless manner, her lackluster tears,

i her dulled delight, the stupor in her eyes,

3 and both her arms held out like yielded spears &. only enhanced her fragile loveliness.

om!

ql : With eyes like fire, though calm and full of j joy, ; ; Delphine, crouching at her lover’s fect, | stared at her like a lion at its prey

ist after having marked it with a bite.

; sag any kneeled at fragile beauty’s feet. With pride and pleasure she inhaled the blood

4 ted wine of victory and then reached out,

f. asifto claim the kisses she was owed.

4 ' She sought, within her pallid victim's eyes,

q “mute symphonies that bliss knows how to play 4 and looks of thanks that, like protracted sighs, #’ tise from the eyelids ina noble way.

+ 4 A:

1 tah . +2

‘:

q “Hippolyta, what do you say to this? j, What if you do not need to give your youth, | your springtime flowers, as a sacrifice

a

| to one who wrecks them with his boisterous breath?

a 4 My kisses are as light as gnats at night § 3 stroking the surface of a limpid pond, a but those a man gives like a chariot

Rae ; aie farmer’s plowshare cut into yourrind.

q They pass across you like a heavy yoke

# of cruel steeds or oxen. Hippolyta,

7 : ‘ _ My sister, turn and lookat me. Please look. | a q - Youare heart, soul and everything to me.

| )

130 THE FLOWER OF EVIL

Give me your eyes, so full of stars and sky. For just one charming glance, a holy balm, I'd raise the veil of secret ecstasy

and lull you in a never-ending dream.”

The girl, though, lifting up her head, said, “Please, Delphine, do not think that I regret

our passion, though I suffer in distress

as if from some strange witch's feast each night.

Dismay is haunting me. I see aband

of dim ghosts beckoning me down aroad where every hazy vista seems to end abruptly in asky the color of blood.

What have we done here? Something reprobate? Must I endure this turmoil and this woe?

I shudder when you call me ‘angel,’ yet

I feel my mouth is yearning for you. No,

Delphine, please don't stare at me like that. [love you now and always, you alone,

even if my desire should be anet

spread for me, and my hellish pains begin.”

With eyes of fire, Delphine shook her head

of tragic hair and, like the priestess of

Apollo on the sacred seat, replied:

“Why mix the word Hell with the word of Love?

My curse forever on the dizzy fool

who was the first to probe the endless maze and tried with all his folly to enroll

love in the service of his righteousness.

FLOWERS OF EVIL

¢ Whoever hopes to bring together dusk and daylight, utter obscurity and fire, will never warm his vacillating husk

i q - jnthatred sun our flesh knows as desire.

& Go, if you want, and find some stupid man.

: Give your virginity to his cruel lusts,

q then, full of penitence and horror, wan,

{. come back to me at last with wounded breasts.

q We each must choose one master here below.” j The girl, though, tortured by the whole ordeal, : cried out, “There is a void inside of me,

; and it is growing, and itis my soul.

q It is like molten rock, like nothingness. Nothing will satisfy the raging greed

4 of the fell Fury’ who extinguishes

4 her blazing torch within my very blood.

4 O draw the curtains—shut the whole world out. L There must be comfort for the weary. Come,

4 let me snuff out my passion on your throat

| F and find in you the solace of a tomb.”-

: 4 —Descend, you melancholy casualties,

am along the road to Hell. Descend, descend!

| a Plunge to the bottom of the pit where vice,

J 4 whipped by the gusts of no celestial wind,

| ; Foars like a tempest as it swells and surges. ’ : Run toward desire, foolish obscurities.

; 4 You won't be able to assuage your urges.

j _ Punishment will be born out of your bliss.

131

132 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL " FLOWERS OF EVIL

No bracing ray will ever light your damp | ; call you, O Bacchus,’ husher of chagrin, caverns but, once it seeps into your rooms, ’ 4 to cure a fever or subdue afit. feverish rot will kindle like a lamp 4 and pierce your flesh with frightening perfumes. q Others, who have a taste for monkish dress §. and hidea lash beneath the robe they wear, “Your pleasure’s bleak sterility will increase a onJonely nights out in the wilderness your thirst and turn you, each, into a hag, q mix pleasure’s foam with a tormented tear. and the wild tempest of your lustfulness ——- make your flesh crackle like a threadbare flag. | ho virgins, demons, saints, monstrosities, h spirits who scorn the actual universe Doomed women, exiled from humanity, f and seek the void, satyrs and devotees

go wandering through desert wastes like wolves. ¢ as full of cries of rapture as of tears,

Dissolute souls, fulfill your destiny, | ; } run trom the infinite inside yourselves. f q you whom my soul has followed to your Hell, : q poor sisters, let me cherish as Imourn

§ all of your sorrows, all your great thirsts, all 111 The Damned Women ; your hearts (each one a love-tormented urn). Like pensive cattle lying on a beach, }

they turn and gaze into the ocean swell. | 4 112 The Two Good Sisters

Feet probe for loving female feet; hands reach ‘

for hands with languor or a desperate chill. 7 Orgy and Death, twin sisters giddy over

| kisses, each possess a fulsome form.

Some, with hearts full of intimate confessions, . Their rag-clad and immaculate haunches, ever

in shadowy groves where little rivers chide, 4 in labor, never bring a child to term.

write out the love of anxious adolescence | F

by carving letters into fresh green wood. | g To evil poets (ill-paid courtiers,

| 4 home-wreckers, the infernal certified),

Others, like sisters, stride majestically | 4 grave sites and brothels show, inside their bowers, through desertscapes where phantoms live in crags, ft beds where Remorse has never laid his head. where rose volcanic for Saint Anthony’ | §

his great Temptation’s naked, purple dugs. : a ich in abuse, coffin and corner both

| E provide in turn, like those delightful twins,

Many there are who, when the fire dies down | 4 terrible joys and frightening ecstasies.

deep in a cave where ancient heathen met, | 4

133

134 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

Foul Orgy, when will you inter my bones? And you, her rival, Death, when will you fuse

sad cypress to her toxic myrtle wreath?’

113. The Fountain of Blood

Sometimes it seems my blood is jetting out rhythmically, as if from a waterspout.

Ihear, clearly, the endless spurting sound but search my skin in vain to find the wound.

A crimson tide maroons each paving stone and makes one vast arena of the town. Every thirsty creature bends its head

to drink it. Everything is painted red.

Sometimes I swilled subversive wine to lull this self-destructive terror for a while,

but wine just hones my eyes and piques my ears.

I hoped that love would lead to lassitude, but love is just a bed of needles made to slake the bloodlust of sadistic whores!

114 Allegory

There is a fine-necked woman, an attractive one,

who lets her very long hair trail into her wine.

Love's talons and the poisons of the gambling den approach and die upon the granite of her skin.

She thinks Death humorous and flouts Debauchery. The gang of monstrous things that ravage and destroy still have respect, in a flirtatious way,

FLOWERS OF EVIL

# for the hard, upright body of nobility.

3 Tautas a goddess, languid as asultan’s wife,

} she cherishes, like an infidel, the joys of life.

q Yes, with ‘her open, breast-uplifting arms, she summons

| 4 the admiring eyes of all of us mere mortal humans.

This barren virgin who, for all that, makes the whole

4 ‘world keep on spinning, spinning round and round, knows well, » feels well, that beauty of the flesh is a sublime

indulgence that absolves the fair of every crime.

q All Hell is moot to her, all Purgatory, moot, 4 and, when the time arrives for her to face the Night,

B she will observe Death’s features like a neonate 3 _ -—without revulsion and without the least regret.

q 115 The Beatrice’

q One day while I was walking, whining, in

f a landscape made of ash, a dead terrain,

| % and while my heart was sharpening my grief

q slowly, just as the whetstone hones the knife,

| 4 I saw, at noon, descend around my head

. a massive melancholy thundercloud

| ] in which a troupe of demons had thelook

3 , of vicious dwarves—such was the form they took. q ‘ They eyed me with a great deal of disdain

fF and, like bystanders near a crazy-man,

1 seemed to share jokes and murmurs, seemed to nod 4 j and wink at one another, as they said:

4 “Come, let us contemplate this travesty, ‘ = this man like Hamlet’s specter in a play— q fhe has the tousled hair, the puzzled look. E Isn't it sad to have to watch this rake,

y p this empty thespian, this fraud, this fool,

135

|

5

[Sa lL . a —

————— 4

a

136 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

since he employs sorfie artistry in his role? He thinks he entertains the eagles, bugs, rivers and flowers by singing of his fugues. He even hurls his shrill tirades at us,

who wrote the book of spite, such as it is.”

I would (since my impressive pride

could easily disperse that hooting crowd)

have simply turned my lordly head, had I

not seen amid that dirty revelry .

(O wrong of wrongs that should have skewed the sun!) Her of the Gorgeous Gaze, my heart’s bright queen, titter with them at my macabre distraction

and stroke them more than once with great affection.

115x The Metamorphoses of the Vampire

Meanwhile the woman, with her lips of strawberry, making her breasts expand against her bustier, twisting and writhing like a serpent in the flame,

let fall the following utterance, pregnant with perfume:

“Me, Iam blessed with moist lips, and Iam quite good at killing wrinkled conscience in a spacious bed.

My all-conquering bust dries up your tears and makes the old burst into laughter, just like little tykes. Whenever someone sees me naked, I outshine

all the constellations and the moon and sun.

Tam, dear connoisseur, so learned in my charms

that, when I crusha loverin my mighty arms,

or when I yield my breasts up to his eager bites,

when Iam meek or weak or wild in my delights

atop a mattress that goes wild with ecstasy,

angels, undone, would damn themselves to lie with me.”

~ Mf ‘A nad "fs

a .

et, MN

FLOWERS OF EVIL

When she had sucked the marrow from my bones, when I had turned my body toward her in a languid way

to give her many loving kisses, nothing was

beside me but a sticky old flask full of pus.

Isqueezed my eyes shut then in overwhelming fear

and, when I opened them to see the light once more,

I saw no active dead thing lying by my side,

j; no vampire who survived by sucking out my blood,

but what appeared a rotting, shaking skeleton

’ that made squeaking pronouncements like a weather vane,

or what was like a storefront’s hanging signage set atop a pole and swinging on a winter night.

116 A Voyage to Cythera’

My heart flew freely among the shrouds and gear

} justasa seabird flutters joyously.

The vessel rolled beneath a cloudless sky, much like an angel drunk on solar glare.

“What is that sad dark island?” “It'srenowned and legendary—known as Cythera. For old-time people it’s utopia. } Despite all that, it seems a wretched land.”

*, —Island of feasting hearts and hidden joys, like an aroma the licentious ghost

x. of Aphrodite flies around your coast, # inflaming souls with love and listlessness.

4 Island of myrtle boughs and blooming buds,

O place the whole world venerates forever, where the sighs of the devoted lover rise, like incense, over flower beds

137

ss a aa =o z ee : = = 2: === " = : c — = <r =

ie |

ie

j

|

Po 138 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

or like the endless cooing of the dove —Cythera, rather, was an arid place, mere rocks and sand disturbed by piercing cries.

Still, there was something strange I caught sight of.

It was no temple hid in shadowy trees

where 2 young priestess, amorous of flowers, her body seething with clandestine fires, walked with her robe half-open to the breeze.

She wasn’t there but, as we grazed the shore and our bright canvas scared the gulls away, we saw a triple-forking gallows tree,

black as a cypress, sticking in the air.

Ferocious birds were perched on what they ate— a savaged, overripe and hanged cadaver.

Each of them used his foul beak like a lever

to pry out every little bit of rot.

The eyes were pits, and the intestines hung the whole way from the belly to the thighs. The birds went also for the delicacies—

they ripped the private parts out of the thing.

There were four-footed creatures. Eager maws lifted, they padded round and round the feast. Dead center of them moved the largest beast,

an executioner with his deputies.

Cytherean, child of so fine a view,

you silently endured humiliation

to purge your island's cultish adoration of sins which have denied a grave to you.

4 An Old Lamp Base

FLOWERS OF EVIL

: Ridiculous hanged man, your grief is mine. fF) While looking at you hanging on display,

p. Tfeltrise to my teeth, like nausea,

a astream of bile, a flood of ancient pain.

y O youfond devil of my memory,

: I felt the beaks and jaws, the gaping maws, 4 of crows and panthers that in other days q too much enjoyed ripping my skin away.

4 —The sky was pleasant, and the sea was smooth.

q For me, though, everything was thick black blood. | ‘ Alas! I had been wrapped up in the truth ofitasin an allegorical shroud.

q -OVenus, on your isle, I only found

3 a gallows where my form was hanging—me! Y. Lord, grant me strength enough to see, |

# ~without revulsion, my own body and mind!

q 117. Love and the Skul!’

%

4 Poised on the skull of our race (his throne), i. the God of Love,

4 a power both naughty and profane,

4 with a wicked laugh,

& is blowing perfect bubbles which rise 4 in the atmosphere

t asif to rejoin existences

B at the end of the air.

139

140 THE FLOWERS OF EVI]

Each fragile and luminescent ball. after its bold flight, bursts and releases its flimsy soul

like a dream of gold.

As each ascends, the skull lets out a groaning sound: “When will this vicious and foolish pursuit

come to an end?

What your lips,O murderous one, make, sud by sud, that’s what I now have as my brain,

my flesh, my blood.”

f 118 Saint Peter’s Denial’

f rt

a What does the Lord do with the tide of blasphemy

a that rises daily toward his heavenly domain?

_ He, like a tyrant stuffed with rich entrées and wine,

sleeps to the sweet sound of our harsh impiety.

_ Martyrs’ dying gasps and torture victims’ sighs

_ compose asymphony that intoxicates his senses,

_ and yet the bloody scene their suffering presents is 4 hardly enough to sate the powers in the skies.

4

—Jesus, do you recall the Garden of Olives? How,

: ~ downon your knees in your naiveté, you prayed

1 to him who chuckled at the sound the hammers made : as villains pierced your living body blow by blow?

q And when you had to see mere drunken soldiery,

i . mere kitchen workers, spit on your beatitude?

q And when you had to feel the crown of thorns draw blood

_ from all around the head that meant humanity?

_ When your already dislocated arms stretched out

_ more and still more beneath your broken body's weight?

_ And when your pallid forehead ran with blood and sweat? 3 When all men saw you as the target of their spite?

<<

__ Did you dream then of those fine, shining former hours _ when you had come down to fulfill the oath of God? _ Of how you traveled, how the gentle ass you rode

_ trampled on pathways strewn with tree branches and flowers?

_ And when, your heart brimming with hope and fortitude, _ you whipped the wicked merchants in the countinghouse?’ When you had proved the master? Did remorsefulness

_ dig even deeper than the spear into your side?

- a 144 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

I, for my part, would happily forsake a place

where what is done and whatis dreamed do not accord.

Lwant to wield the sword and perish by the sword. Peter rejected Jesus. What he did was wise!

119 Abel and Cain’ {. Race of Abel, sleep, drink, feed.

God smiles on you complacently.

Race of Cain, crawl in the mud. Die in the most despairing way.

Race of Abel, your sacrifice delights the nostrils of seraphim.

Race of Cain, will your damages abide beyond the end of time?

Race of Abel, watch as your crops

thrive always, and your cows get fat.

Race of Cain, your stomach yaps with hunger like a worn-out mutt.

Race of Abel, go lie down before your forefather’s hearth fire.

Race of Cain, go to your den and, like a jackal, shiver there.

Race of Abel, love and beget. Even your money multiplies.

REVOLT 145

f: Race of Cain, your heart is hot. f Beware of your licentiousness. a ‘Race of Abel, you breed and thrive . ke ? he . ‘

® as well as insects inthe woods.

i

& Race of Cain, you have to drive

& your family over desert roads,

‘a M II.

A ' Ah, race of Abel, your remains & will fortify the steaming soil.

q Race of Cain, for all your pains, you are condemned to further toil.

4 Race of Abel, here is your shame: ES B the hoe is stronger than the sword!

4 - Race of Cain, go on and climb S:. as high as Heaven, drag down the Lord!

a a

4 120 The Litanies of Satan’

R O you, most wise, most gorgeous of the seraphim, f Ogod betrayed by fate and stripped ofall your fame,

i

q Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

FO exiled potentate, you who have been mistreated mf ; B but always come back stronger when you are defeated,

a | : Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

“ A’. ¢ “Si

3 q Fi

146 THE FLOWERS OF air

You who know all, great king of subterranean things,

eminent healer of our human sufferings, Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

You who instruct the lepers and anathemas you go adore to hunger after Paradise,

Satan, have mercy on my endless griet!

You who had sex with Death, an old and potent belle, and on her fathered Hope, that fascinating fool,

Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

You who provide the crook with calm looks of disdain that damn the rabble massed around the guillotine,

Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

You who have scanned the mean earth’s nooks and can disclose ; f the precious stones a jealous God has kept from us,

Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

You whose keen eyes have spotted every arsenal where multitudes of metals sleep beneath the soil,

Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

You who with one extremely massive hand conceal ledges from sleepwalkers out for a nightly stroll,

Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

REVOLT 147

EO you who, when some sluggish drunk gets trampled on P 4 by horse hooves, wondrously relax the brokert bone,

| 4 Satan, have mercy on my endless grief! we a _ 5S ee ee ‘ _O you who first came up with mixing niter in

q with sulfur to console the sufferings of man,

‘ Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

® You who have set your mark on base and obdurate’ & Croesus’s brow, you exquisite associate,

i} Satan, have mercy on my endless grief!

q You who have put; in young girls’ eyes and hearts desires 4 foy men who dress in tatter's and a cult of sores,

" * Satan, have mercy on my endless griefi

q Lamp for the inventor, exile’s walking stick,

f confessor for the hanged man and the turncoat sneak, 4 Satan, have mercy on my endless grief! ae

¢; Adoptive father of those two whom their FatHer God,

t. enraged, drove from the Paradise where they were made,

&. Satan, have mercy on my endless grief! : Prayer >’ * ‘ ,*

4 Glory and praise to you, O Satan, both way up 7 in Heaven, where you once held sway, and way down deep

145 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

in Hell, where, crushed, you mutely dream the days away. Grant that my soul ntay lie rear you beneath the Tree of Knowledge’ in the future, when its branches sp read,

like anew Temple’s colonnade, above your head.

121 The Lovers’ Death

Our mattress will exude seductive scents. Our ottoman will hold us like a tomb.

For our delight, beneath the finest suns, ; flower buds on ledges will unfold and bloom.

Our hearts, two torches, two vivacious blazes, will burn more brightly in their final hours and twin each other in the looking-glasses that are these corresponding souls of ours.

One night of mystic violet and rose we shall exchange a shared and final flash § like along sob, containing our adieus,

f and, afterward, an angel willcomein f with gentle steps and jubilantly shine tthe tarnished mirrors and revive the ash.

q 122 The Death ofthe Poor

1 It’s Death that makes us live, Death that consoles. f. Life’s ending is the only prospect that,

_ like an intoxicant, inspires our souls

q to march, inebriated, toward the night.

q Death in the distance is the living light 4 that guides us over frost, through snow and storm. Death is the inn the guidebook talks about,

p aplace where we can eat, sleep and be warm.

7 Death is an angel, and his magic hand t Offets, as presents, sleep and dreams of bliss. F Death makes a bed for naked homelessness.

, DEATH 153

152 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL a P

‘and solacing even the ravenous, FE the poet tells himself: “At last!

Death is gods’ glory, and the great grain-store, the poor man’s purse, the ancient fatherland. To skies that are unknown, Death is the door. 4 4 | My spine and spirit both invoke

q restfulness: Come to me, please, please, please. 4 My heart rolling in reveries, ft

t

123 The Death of Artists How often must 1 jingle like a fool 4 I want to lie down on my back and kiss your low brow, shabby caricature? « and wrap myself in your drapery,

Quiver, how many arrows must I fire '. replenishing obscurity.”

b Fr

before I pin all Nature to a wall?

We will exhaust our souls with slick ideas i 125 The Dream of an Odd Man and, over and over, trash some “grand design” 4 before we get to see the Wondrous One For Félix Nadar’ we long for—he who fills our hearts with sighs. q : Do you, like me, find grief delectable?

Do people say of you, “How odd he is!”?

F Iwas near death, and in my ardent soul

Some artists never meet their heathen gods. Some sculptors, branded with the mark of Hell, condemned to flagellate themselves in shame, j desire was mixed with horror—a strange malaise: °

have just one hope, the somber Capitol!” F angst anda lively lust in harmony.

That Death, a new day rising, soon will come The closer to the time the hourglass grew, and ravel out the flowers in their heads. ; the more the pain tortured and pleasured me.

j My heart was being torn from what it knew. | t

124 The End of the Day : Iwas achild excited for the scene,

hating the drapes like something in the way. F

: Then came the facts, the cold truth, finally:

z

Life, saucy and intemperate,

is wildly twisting, dancing, moving F i Dead, I was dead of course. A horrid dawn

fF enveloped me. And then what? Is that all? ‘ | The drapes divided. I was waiting still.

under evening's pallid light. And later, just as pleasure-loving

night comes sweeping over us, effacing even the disgraced

154 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL yr 126 Voyaging For Maximedu Camp’

I.

The world can sate the giant appetite

of children keen on stamps and atlases. How vast it all is in the lantern’s light! How pitiful in recollection’s eyes!

One dawn we ship out with our minds aflame and hearts surcharged with raw, bitter emotions and sail on, with the breakers keeping time, rocking our boundlessness in finite oceans.

Many forsake the land that was their home or a horrific birthplace. A few are like astrologers, drowned in the eyes of some despotic Circe who has drugs in stock,

These men, far from becoming animals, get drunk on fiery skies and amiplitude.

The sun that tans them, the ice that gives them chills,

efface the bruising kisses from their hide.

The true voyagers, though, are those who leave just to be leaving. Their hearts all buoyancy, they, never fading in their fatal drive,

always say “Onward!” without knowing why.

These men are subject to a cloud-like zeal. As soldiers dream of cannon fire, they dream of vast delights—uncharted, changeable locales of which we do not know the name.

|| because he makes the ocean bitterer?

r OTT.

Gasp! We are tops and bowling balls; we bounce and dance all over. An Inquiring Mind, like a harsh demiurge who lashes suns,

e even at night;keeps rolling us around.

How strange 2 game! The object of the quests

’ changes and could be everywhere at once. t. Man, in his tireless yearning, never rests EF from scrambling in circles like a dunce.

Our soul’s a ship in search of Paradise. While someone on the bridge shouts “Look alivel,” an ardent idiot in the crow’s nest cries:

| 4 “For love... contentment... glory!” Damn, a reef.

, The watchman thinks that every isle they meet B is El Dorado, their predestined goal.

#; Imagination, running wild all night,

F finds, inthe light of morning, just a shoal.

H Lovers of fictive lands—they seem so sad! q Should each deranged Columbus, each drunk tar, : beclappedin chains and cast into the tide

ad

: ‘So the old tramp, while slogging through a slough, q dreams of Elysium and lifts his head,

f, and his entranced gaze sees a Capua’

|} where a lone candle flickers in a shed.

wee

} Astounding travelers! In your sea-deep eyes

| wecan decipher noble chronicles.

| Show us the chest of your rich memories,

. those starlight gemstones, those ethereal jewels.

DEATH

155

156 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL o :

We long to voyage without steam or wind.

To brighten the monotony of our cells,

let your experience, which horizons bound,

inspire our souls—souls stretched as tight as sails.

a

Tell us what you have seen.

IV.

“The constellations and breakers; sometimes we have seen the shore. What’s more, despite disastrous situations, we often have been bored, as we are here.

The glory of sunlight on magenta seas and glory of cities as the sun retires spark in our hearts an ardent restlessness

to dive into asky of tempting fires.

The richest towns and finest countrysides never contained the transcendental charm of what pure chance arranges in the clouds.

Desire has always kept our passion warm.

—Enjoyment fortifies desire. Desire,

old tree manured by pleasure, even as

your bark expands and coarsens more and more, your branches reach to see the sun up close.

Sublime tree, will you always grow more thick and tall than cypress? —Still, we have, with care, picked sketches for your greedy memory book, brothers who cherish what comes from afar:

yes, there were gods with trunks like elephants, and thrones encrusted with resplendent gems,

DEATH 157

f: and palaces whose wild luxuriance

4 would bankruptall your bankers in their dreams,

& and clothing that intoxicates the eyes, } and womenfolk who paint their nails and teeth,

». and cageymountebanks whom snakes caress.”

as q And then? And then? What else?

p VI.

“You childish things, a 1,

q this is, for you, the most important matter:

q we witnessed (without even seeking it),

g the whole way up and down the fatal ladder,

# immortal sin—a rather boring sight:

i

; woman, a vile thrall, proud of her stupidity,

q loves herself without being shocked or blissful : q man, obscene, of obdurate cupidity,

4 a greedy king, a slave of slaves, a cesspool; a jolly torturers and saints who sigh;

j a finely seasoned feast of blood served up; q Power's poison enervating majesty, .. # and common folk who love the brutal whip.

q Many religions much like ours, which al]

B point different ways to Heaven; holy men

q who dote on nails and hair shirts, as the frail F Pansy luxuriates in a plush divan.

3 Drunk on its brilliant thoughts, Humanity,

‘ delirious as it has ever been,

158 THE FLOWERS OF EVIL £

cries out to God in furious agony: ‘Damn you to Hell, my overlord, my twinl’

Less foolish, though, but big on madness, some, rather than live like cows, escape the mob

by hiding out in boundless opium.

—Such is the news of the entire globe.”

VIL.

Dismay is what one learns from voyaging. Today, tomorrow, yesterday, the bland

world gives us back our own reflection: a spring of horror rising out of boring sand!

Escape or stay? If you can do it, stay;

go.if you must. One runs; another lies

low to evade the watchful enemy

named Time. Some run a never-ending race—

the Twelve Apostles and the Wandering Jew. No means of transit, neither coach nor boat,

can help them shake that thug (though quite a few, ’

home in their native lands, can slit his throat).

Finally, when his boot is on our nape,

we may exult and cry out “Smartly there!” even as, China bound, we once took ship with giddy eyes and breezes in our hair.

Our hearts as joyous as if we were young,

we will embark upon the ghostly brine.

Now do you hear the sad entrancing song? “Come here, come here, all you who want to dine

DEATH 159

; on Lotus flowers." Here we gather in

4 the otherwordly fruit your spirits lust after. In this unending afternoon,

4 _ come and get drunk on its seductive taste!”

K We guess the ghost by her familiar voice.

F, Pylades’ strains our way across the gulf. f. The one whose knees we kissed in other days ¥. cries, “Swim to your Electral" Save yourself!”

‘ -VIIL

: O Death, old skipper, it’s time to leave the pier.

1 O Death, this place is boring. Let’s move on: ; ¢ Even if sky and sea are black as tar,

fF our spirits, you well know, are full of sun.

Give us your poison, and we will be well.

E Our minds are burning, and we want to go

q é into the magnitude of Heaven or Hell,,

| : to fathom the unknown, to find what's new.

, a i

AU POETE IMPECCABLE AU PARFAIT MAGICIEN ES LETTRES FRANCAISES A MON TRES-CHER ET TRES-VENERE MAITRE ET AMI THEOPHILE GAUTIER AVEC LES SENTIMENTS DE LA PLUS PROFONDE HUMILITE

JE DEDIE

CES FLEURS MALADIVES

C.B.

perma ys eS et a

Pau lecteur

zs 1 ok

4 La sottise, erreur, le péché, la lésine,

“a pOccirpent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps, 7 f.Etnous $ alimentons nos aimables remords,

; q ‘Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

. t Nos péchés sont tétus, nos repentirs sont laches; gNous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,

REL nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux, ‘4 * Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.

q

y Sur loreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste

i Fou berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,

B: Et le riche métal de notre volonté

Best tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.

4 -

B Crest le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;

4 Chaque jour vers l’Enfer nous descendons d’un pas, f Sans horreur, 4 travers des ténébres qui puent.

{Ainsi qu’un débauché pauvre qui baise,et mange

3 Le sein martyrisé d’une antique catin, ’

y ;- Nous volons au passage un plaisir claridestine

FQue nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange. ¥

, Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d’helminthes, ; B Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,

p Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons . Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes. 4 Sile viol, le poison, le poignard, l’incendie,

4 ‘N’ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins

. Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,

* C'est que notre ame, hélasl n’est pas assez hardie.

166 LES FLEURS DU MAL

Mais parmi les chacals, les panthéres, les lices, Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents, Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,

Dans la ménagerie infame de nos vices,

[I en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde! Quoiqu’il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris, Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris

Et dans un biaillement avalerait le monde;

C’est l'Ennui! L’ceil chargé d’un pleur involontaire, Il réve d’échatauds en fumant son houka. Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,

— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frére!

Bénédiction

% orsque, par un décret des puissances suprémes,

3 Le Poéte apparait en ce monde ennuyé,

F Sa mére épouvantée et pleine de blasphémes -Crispe Ses poings vers Dieu, quila prend en pitié: ;— «Ah! que n’ai-je mis bas tout un nceud de vipéres, bPlutét que de nourrir cette dérision!

| Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémeres

f.O0 mon ventre a concgu mon expiation!

4 Puisque tu m’as choisie entre toutes les femmes b Pour étre le dégoft de mon triste mari,

Et que jene puis pas rejeter dans les flammes,

q Comme un billet d’amour, ce monstre rabougri,

® Je ferai rejaillir ta haine qui m’accable

] Sur l'instrument maudit de tes méchancetés,

i Et je tordrai si bien cet arbre misérable,

& Qu’il ne pourra pousser ses boutons empestés!»

F Elle ravale ainsi l’écume de sa haine,

q Et, ne comprenant pas les desseins éternels, F Elle-méme prépare au fond de la Géhenne

+ Les bOchers consacrés aux crimes maternels.

; Pourtant, sous la tutelle invisible d'un Ange, LEnfant déshérité s'enivre de soleil

F Etdans tout ce qu'il boit et dans tout ce qu’il mange } Retrouve l’'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil.

F Iljoueavecle vent, cause avec le nuage,

* Ets'enivre en chantant du chemin de la croix; F Et l'Esprit qui le suit dans son pélerinage

t Pleure dele voir gai comme un oiseau des bois.

=

SPLEEN ET IDEAL 171

7 1 | ie Me

170 LES FLEURS DU MAL ¥

Tous ceux qu'il veut aimer l’observent avec crainte, Ou bien, s’enhardissant de sa tranquillité, Cherchent 4 qui saura lui tirer une plainte,

Et font sur luil’essai de leur f€rocite.

Dans le pain et le vin destinés 4sa bouche

Is mélent de la cendre avec d'impurs crachats; Avec hypocrisie ils jettent ce qu'il touche,

Et s'accusent d’avoir mis leurs pieds dans ses pas.

Sa femme va criant sur les places publiques: «Puisqu’il me trouve assez belle pour m’adorer, Je ferai le métier des idoles antiques,

Et comme elles je veux me faire redorer;

Et je me sodlerai de nard, d’encens, de myrrhe, De génuflexions, de viandes et de vins, Pour savoir si je puis dans un coeur qui m’admire

Usurper en riant les hommages divins!

Et, quand je m’ennuierai de ces farces impies, / Je poserai sur luima fréle et forte main;

Et mes ongles, pareils aux ongles des harpies, Sauront jusqu’a son coeur s¢ frayer un chemin.

‘Comme un tout jeune oiseau qui tremble et qui palpite, J'arracherai ce cocur tout rouge de son sein,

Et, pour rassasier ma béte favorite,

Je le lui jetterai par terre avec dédain!»

Vers le Ciel, of son ceil voit un trone splendide, Le Poéte serein léve ses bras pieux Ft les vastes éclairs de son esprit lucide

Lui dérobentl'aspect des peuples furieux:

; — «Soyez béni, mon Dieu, qui donnez la souffrance

Comme un divin reméde 4 nos impuretés Etcomme la meilleure et la plus pure essence

Qui prépare les forts aux saintes voluptés!

Je sais que vous gardez une place au Poéte Dans les rangs bienheureux des saintes Légions, Et que vous |’invitez 4]’éternelle féte

} Des Trénes, des Vertus, des Dominations.

| Je sais que la douleur est la noblesse unique ‘i Ot ne mordront jamais la terre et les enfers,

Et qu'il faut pour tresser ma couronne mystique

+. Imposer tous les temps et tous les univers.

q Mais les bijoux perdus de ]’antique Palmyre,

Les métaux inconnus, les perles de la mer,

q Par votre main montés, ne pourraient pas suffire q Ace beau diadéme éblouissant et clair;

a Car il ne sera fait que de pure lumiere,

& Puisée au foyer saint des rayons primitifs,

q Etdont les yeux mortels, dans leur splendeur entiére, f; Nesont que des miroirs obscurcis et plaintifs!»

2 LAtbatros

« Souvent, pour s’amuser, les hommes d’€quipage

Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,

Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,

} Lenavire glissant sur les gouftres amers.

q A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches, 4 Que ces rois de l’azur, maladroits et honteux,

a en

Mt wd ee a

wet ek De _

172 LES FLEURS DU MA

Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches

Comme des avirons trainer 4 cdté d’eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule! Lui, naguére si beau, qu'il est comique et laid! Lun agace son bec avec un brdle-gueule, Lautre mime, en boitant, l’infirme qui volait!

Le Poéte est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempéte et se rit de l’archer; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,

Ses ailes de géant l’empéchent de marcher.

3 Elévation

Au-dessus des étangs, au-dessus des vallées, Des montagnes, des bois, des nuages, des mers, Par dela le soleil, par dela les éthers,

Par dela les confins des sphéres étoilées,

Mon esprit, tu te meus avec agilité,

Et, comme un bon nageur qui se pame dans l’onde, Tu sillonnes gaiement l'immensité profonde

Avec une indicible et male volupté.

Envole-toi bien loin de ces miasmes morbides; Va te purifier dans l’air supérieur, Et bois, comme une pure et divine liqueur,

Le feu clair qui remplit les espaces limpides.

Derriére les ennuis et les vastes chagrins Qui chargent de leur poids l’existence brumeuse, Heureux celui qui peut d’une aile vigoureuse

S’élancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins;

ef. “i

9 .Celui dont les pensers, comme des alouettes,

B Vers les cieux le matin prennent un libre essor, | 3 — Qui plane sur la vie, et comprend sans effort = 4 Le'langage des fleurs et des choses muettes!

e 4 Correspondances

| 4 La Nature est un temple ot de vivants piliers

q - Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;

e ; Lhomme y passe 4 travers des foréts de symboles F Quilobservent avec des regards familiers.

F Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent 4 Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,

- Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,

4 Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se xێpondent.

e

* Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies, =. —Et d'autres, corrompus, riches ettriomphants,

Aydnt l’expansion des choses infinies,

a * * $

& Comme l’ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l’encens, F. Quichantentles transports de ]’esprit et des sens. ‘¢ :

4 , 5 Jaime le souvenir de ces €poques nues... 4q J’aime le souvenir de ces €poques nues, q Dont Phoebus se plaisait 4 dorer les statues. 4 Alors homme et la femme en leur agilité y Jouissaient sans mensonge et sans anxiété, q Et, le ciel amourevux leur caressant l’échine, | p Exercaient la santé de leur noble machine.

f ki. ow

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

f. Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d’enfants,.

: | : f | i | |

4€°-b a

Sere OR yA a,

174 LES FLEURS DU MAL, Z

Cybéle alors, fertile en produits généreux,

Ne trouvait point ses fils un poids trop onéreux, Mais, louve au coeur gonilé de tendresses communes, Abreuvait l’univers 4 ses tétines brunes.

Uhomme, élégant, robuste et fort, avait le droit

D’étre fier des beautés qui le nommaient leur roi; Fruits purs de tout outrage et vierges de gercures,

Dont la chair lisse et ferme appelait les morsures!

Le Poéte aujourd’hui, quand il veut concevoir

Ces natives grandeurs, aux lieux ot se font voir

La nudité de homme et celle de la femme,

Sent un froid ténébreux envelopper son 4me

Devant ce noir tableau plein d’€pouvantement.

O monstruosités pleurant leur vétement

O ridicules troncs! torses dignes des masques!

O pauvres corps tordus, maigres, ventrus ou flasques, Que le dieu de l’Utile, implacable et serein,

Enfants, emmaillota dans ses langes d’airain!

Et vous, femmes, hélas! pales comme des cierges,

Que ronge et que nourrit la débauche, et vous, vierges, Du vice materne! trainant Vhérédité

Et toutes les hideurs de la fécondité!

Nous avons, il est vrai, nations corrompues,

Aux peuples anciens des beautés inconnues:

Des visages rongés par les chancres du coeur,

Et comme qui dirait des beautés de langueur; Mais ces inventions de nos muses tardives N’empécheront jamais les races maladives

De rendre 4 Ja jeunesse un hommage profond,

— A lasainte jeunesse, al’air simple, au doux front, Alceil limpide et clair ainsi qu’une eau courante, Et qui va répandant sur tout, insouciante

Comme l’azur du ciel, les oiseaux et les fleurs,

Ses parfums, ses chansons et ses douces chaleurs!

ead

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

»: Oreiller de chair fraiche ot l’on ne peut aimer, b Mais ot la vie affluc et s'agite sans cesse,

& Comme lair dans le ciel et la mer dans la mer;

‘ Léonard de Vinci, miroir profond et sombre,

| Bo des anges charmants, avec un doux souris Tout chargé de mystére, apparaissent 4 l’ombre a Des glaciers et des pins qui ferment leur pays;

i. - Rembrandt, triste hépital tout rempli de murmures, is a Et d'un grand crucifix décoré seulement,

: Oi: la priére en pleurs s’exhale des ordures,

4 Et d'un rayon d’hiver traversé brusquement;

4 -Michel-Ange, lieu vague ov I’on voit des Hercules

F Se méler a des Christs, et se lever tout droits

* Des fantémes puissants qui dans les crépuscules Déchirent leur suaire en étirant leurs doigts;

a

E oo |

B. Coléres de boxeur, impudences de faune,

f Toi quisusramasserlabeautédesgoujats, «

f° Grand coeur gonflé d’orgueil, homme débile et jaune,

_ Puget, mélancolique empereur des forgats;-,

Watteau, ce carnaval ot: bien des cceurs illustres, ~ Comme des papillons, errent en flamboyant,

p Décors frais et légers éclairés par des lustres

& Quiversent la folie 4 ce bal tournoyant;

Goya, cauchemar plein de choses inconnues, &, Defcetus qu’on fait cuire au milieu des sabbats, u De vieilles au miroir et d’enfants toutes nues, 4 Pour tenter les démons ajustant bien leurs bas;

z

175

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176 LES FLEURS DU MAL al

Delacroix, lac de sang hanté des mauvais anges, Ombragé par un bois de sapins toujours vert,

Ou, sous un ciel chagrin, des fanfares étranges Passent, comme un soupir étouffé de Weber;

Ces malédictions, ces blasphémes, ces plaintes, Ces extases, ces cris, ces pleurs, ces Te Deum, Sont un écho redit par mille labyrinthes;

C'est pour les cocurs mortels un divin opium!

C’est un cri répété par mille sentinelles, Un ordre renvoyé par mille porte-volx; C'est un phare allumé sur mille citadelles,

Un appel de chasseurs perdus dans les grands bois!

Car c'est vraiment, Seigneur, le meilleur témoignage

Que nous puissions donner de notre dignité Que cet ardent sanglot qui roule d’age en Age Et vient mourir au bord de votre éternité!

7 JLaMuse malade

Ma pauvre muse, hélas! qu’as-tu donc ce matin?

Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,

Et je vois tour a tour réfléchis sur ton teint

La folie et ’horreur, froides et taciturnes.

Le succube verdatre et le rose lutin T’ont-ils versé la peur et l'amour de leurs urnes?

Le cauchemar, d’un poing despotique et mutin

T’a-t-il noyée au fond d'un fabuleux Minturnes?

Je voudrais qu’exhalant l’odeur de la santé

Ton sein de pensers forts {fit toujours fréquenteé, Et que ton sang chrétien coulata flots rythmiques,

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

j f. Comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques, me Ourégnenttour 4 tour le pére des chansons,

4 Phoebus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.

a

m8 LaMusevénale

Bi O muse de mon cceur, amante des palais,

r Auras-tu, quand Janvier lachera ses Borées,

: Qurantles noirs ennuis des neigeuses soirces, ; a F Z '

a Untison pour ch auffer tes deux pieds violets?

q Ranimeras-tu donc tes épaules marbrées

4 Aux nocturnes rayons qui percent les volets? q Sentant ta bourse & sec autant que ton palais 4 Récolteras-tu l’or des vofites azurées?

“f + *

m: II te faut, pour gagner ton pain de chaque soir,

& Comme un enfant de choeur, jouer de l’encensoir,

fee; Chanter des Te Deum auxquels tu ne crois guere, 3

. Ou, saltimbanque 4 jeun, étaler tes appas | i Etton rire trempé de pleurs qu’on ne voit pas,

& Pour faire épanouir la rate du vulgaire.

9 LeMauvais Moine

q Les cloitres anciens sur leurs grandes murailles

q Etalaient en tableaux la sainte Vérité,

q Dont l’effet réchauffant les pieuses entrailles,

q Tempérait la froideur de leur austérité.

4 En ces temps ott du Christ florissaient les semailles, B Plus d'un illustre moine, aujourd’hui peu cité,

177

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178 LES FLEURS DU MAL* Prenant pour atelier le champ des funérailles, Glorifiait la Mort avec simplicité.

— Mon ame est un tombeau que, mauvais cénobite, Depuis l’éternité je parcours et j’habite;

Rien n’embellit les murs de ce cloitre odieux.

O moine fainéant! quand saurai-je donc faire

Du spectacle vivant de ma triste misére

Le travail de mes mains et l’amour de mes yeux?

10 LEnnemi

Ma jeunesse ne fut qu'un ténébreux orage,

Traversé ca et 1a par de brillants soleils;

Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fait un tel ravage,

Qu'il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.

Voila que j'ai touché l’automne des idées,

Et qu'il faut employer la pelle et les rateaux f Pour rassembler 4 neuf les terres inondées,

Ou l'eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.

Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je réve Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une gréve

Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?

— © douleur! 6 douleur! Le Temps mange la vie, Et ’obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur Du sang que nous perdons croit et se fortifie!

Bay

Ag & mil «Le Guignon

; F Pour soulever un poids silourd,

R Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!

§ Bien qu'on ait du cceur 4 ’ouvrage, Bart est long et le Temps est court.

B Loin des sépultures célébres,

4 ers.un cimetiére isol€é,

Mon coeur, comme un tambour voilé, “4 : Va battant des marches funebres. a — Maint joyau dort enseveli

4 ‘Dans les ténébres et l’oubli,

fy Bien loin des pioches et des sondes; a

& Mainte fleur épanche 4 regret

a Son parfum doux comme un secret a Dans les solitudes profondes.

a 4

- 12 LaVieantérieure

as , ¥

& J’ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques F Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille fgux,

a Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,

4 < Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux, f Mélaient d'une facon solennelle et mystique FE Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique 4 Aux couletirs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.

q C’est la que j'ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes, q Au milieu de l’azur, des vagues, des splendeurs

q Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d’odeurs,

e SPEEEN ET IDEAL

§ Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.

179

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186 LES FLEURS DU MAK

Qui me rafraichissaient le front avec des palmes, Et dont l’unique soin était d’approfondir Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.

*

13 Bohémiens en voyage

La tribu prophétique aux prunelles ardentes Hier s'est mise en route, emportant ses petits Sur son dos, ou livrant 4 leurs fiers appétits

Le trésor toujours prét des mamelles pendantes.

Les hommes vont pied sous leurs armes luisantes Le long des chariots od les leurs sont blottis, Promenant sur le ciel des yeux appesantis

Par le morne regret des chiméres absentes.

Du fond de son réduit sablonneux, le grillon, Les regardant passer, redouble sa chanson; Cybéle, qui les aime, augmente ses verdures,

Fait couler le rocher et fleurir le désert Devant ces voyageurs, pour lesquels est ouvert empire familier des ténébres futures.

14 L’Homme etlaMer

Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer! La mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton 4me Dans le déroulement infini de sa lame,

Et ton esprit n’est pas un gouffre moins amer.

Tu te plais 4 plonger au sein de ton image; Tu l’embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeur

SPLEEN ET IDEAL 181

R Se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur

4 Au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage. E ; Vous &tes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:

EF Homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abimes;

Ke mer, nul ne connait tes richesses intimes,

A Tant vous étes jaloux de garder vos secrets!

: Et cependant voila des siécles innombrables :

fF: Que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords, F Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,

O lutteurs éternels, 6 fréres implacables!

. 15 Don Juanauxenfers

: Quand Don Juan descendit vers ]'’onde seuterraine f. Et lorsqu’il eut donné son obole a Charon,

|. Unsombre mendiant, l’ceil fier comme Antisthéne, 4 D’un bras vengeur et fort saisit chaque aviron.

- Montrant leurs seins pendants et leurs robes ouvertes, & Des femmes se tordaient sous le noir firmament, ¢ Et, comme un grand troupeau de victimes offertes,

I

f Derriére lui trainaient un long mugissement. 4 2

f Sganarelle en riant lui réclamait ses gages, Tandis que Don Luis avec un doigt tremblant : Montrait 4 tous les morts errant sur les rivages

q Le fils audacieux qui railla son front blanc.

7 Frissonnant sous son deuil, la chaste et maigre Elvire, Prés de l’époux pertide et quifutson amant, Semblait lui réclamer un supréme sourire

Ov brillat la douceur de son premier serment.

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182 LES PLEURS DU MAL ¢

Tout droit dans son armure, un grand homme de pierre Se tenait ala barre et coupait le flot noir; Mais le calme héros, courbé sur sa rapiére,

Regardait le sillage et ne daignait rien voir.

16 Chatiment de l’orgueil

En ces temps merveilleux ot Ja Théologie Fleurit avec le plus de séve et d’énergie, On raconte qu'un jour un docteur des plus grands, — Apres avoir forcé les coeurs indifférents; Les avoir remués dans leurs profondeurs noires; Aprés avoir franchi vers les célestes gloires Des chemins singuliers 4 lui-méme inconnus, Ou les purs Esprits seuls peut-étre étaient venus, — Comme un homme monté trop haut, pris de panique, S’écria, transporté d’un orgueil satanique: désus, petit Jésusl je vai poussé bien haut! Mais, si j'avais voulu vattaquer au défaut De l’'armure, ta honte égalerait ta gloire, Et tune serais plus qu’un foetus dérisoirel»

Immédiatement sa raison s’en alla. Léclat de ce soleil d’un crépe se voila Tout le chaos roula dans cette intelligence, Temple autrefois vivant, plein d’ordre et d’opulence, Sous les plafonds duquel tant de pompe avait lui. Le silence et la nuit s’installérent en lui, Comme dans un caveau dont la clef est perdue. Dés lors il fut semblable aux bétes de la rue, Et, quand il sen allait sans rien voir, 4 travers Les champs, sans distinguer les étés des hivers, Sale, inutile et laid comme une chose usée,

Il faisait des enfants la joie et la risée.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

17 LaBeauté

Je suis belle, 6 mortels! comme un réve de pierre, Ft mon sein, ot chacun s'est meurtri tour 4 tour, Est fait pour inspirer au poéte un amour

Eterne] et muet ainsi que la matiére.

Je tr6ne dans l’azur comme un sphinx incompris; J'unis un coeur de neige 2 la blancheur des cygnes; Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,

Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.

Les poétes, devant mes grandes attitudes, Que j’ai l’air d’emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,

; ~Consumeront leurs jours en d'austéres études;

=} 5 ? s Car j’ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants, ~

4 De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:

Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles!

18 VIdéal

‘ Gene seront jamais ces beautés de vignettes,

Produits avariés, nés d’un siécle vaurien,

s. Ces pieds a brodequins, ces doigts a castagnettes,

Qui sauront satisfaire un coeur comme le mien

Je laisse 4 Gavarni, poéte des chloroses, f Son troupeau gazouillant de beautés d’hépital,

Car je ne puis trouver parmi ces p4les roses

f Une fleur quiressemble a mon rouge idéal.

: q Ce qu’il faut 4 ce coeur profond comme un abime j C’est vous, Lady Macbeth, ame puissante au crime, } Réve d’Eschyle éclos au climat des autans:

183

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184 LES FLEURS DU MAL

Ou bien toi, grande Nuit, fille de Michel-Ange, Qui tors paisiblement dans une pose étrange

Tes appasfaconnés aux bouches des Titans!

19 ‘La Géante

Du temps que la Nature en sa verve puissante Concevait chaque jour des enfants monstrueux, Jeusse aimé vivre auprés d’une jeune géante, Comme aux pieds d’une reine un chat voluptucux.

Jieusse aimé voir son corps fleurir avec son 4me

Et grandir librement dans ses terribles jeux; Deviner si son cceur couve une sombre flamme Aux humides brouillards qui nagent’dans ses yeux;

Parcourir a loisir ses magnifiques formes; Ramper sur le versant de ses genoux €normes,

Et parfois en été, quand les soleils malsains, ’

Lasse, la font s’étendre a travers Jacampagne, Dormir nonchalamment 4l’ombre de ses seins,

Comme un hameau paisible au pied d’une montagne.

20 Le Masque

Statue allégorique dans le gottt dela Renaissance

A Ernest Christophe, statuaire

Contemplons ce trésor de graces florentines; Dans l'ondulation de ce corps musculeux LBlégance et la Force abondent, securs divines.

Cette femme, morceau vraiment miraculeux,

“ +

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

Divinement robuste, adorablement mince, Est faite pour troner sur des lits somptueux

Et charmer les loisirs d’un pontife ou d’un prince.

— Aussi, vois ce souris fin et voluptueux

Ov la Fatuité proméne son extase;

Ce long regard sournois, langoureux et moqueur; Ce visage mignard, tout encadré de gaze,

Dont chaque trait nous dit avec un air vainqueur: «La Volupté m’appelle et !Amour me couronne!» A cet étre doué de tant de majesté

Vois quel charme excitant Ja gentillesse donne! Approchons, et tournons autour de sa beauté.

O blasphéme de l'art! 6 surprise fatale! La femme au corps divin, promettant le bonheur, Par le haut se termine en monstre bicéphale!

— Mais non! ce n’est qu’un masque, un décor suborneur, Ce visage éclairé d’une exquise grimace,

Et, regarde, voici, crispée atrocement,

La véritable téte, et la sincére face

f Renversée 4 l'abri de la face qui ment

Pauvre grande beauté! le magnifique fleuve Detes pleurs aboutit dans mon coeur soucieux Ton mensonge m’enivre, et mon ame s’abreuve

Aux flots que la Douleur fait jaillir de tes yeux!

4 — Mais pourquoi pleure-t-elle? Elle; beauté parfaite, f Qui mettrait 4ses pieds le genre humain vaincu, F- Quel mal mystérieux ronge son flanc d’athléte?

— Elle pleure insensé, parce qu'elle a vécu! Et parce qu'elle vit! Mais ce qu'elle déplore

B Surtout, ce quila fait frémir jusqu’aux genoux,

185

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186 LES FLEURS DUMAL *

C’est que demain, hélas! il faudra vivre encore! Demain, aprés-demain et toujours! — comme nous!

21 Hymne 4labeauté

Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l’abime, © Beauté? ton regard, infernal et divin,

Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime, Et!’on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.

Tu contiens dans ton ceil le couchant et l’aurore;

Tu répands des parfums comme un soir orageux; Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche une amphore Qui font le héros lache et enfant courageux.

Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres? Le Destin charmé suit tes jupons comme un chien; Tu sémes au hasard la joie et les désastres, Et tu gouvernes tout et ne réponds de rien.

f Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques; De tes bijoux }'Horreur n'est pas le moins charmant, Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chéres breloques,

Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusementt.

Léphémére ébloui vole vers toi, chandelle, Crépite, flambe et dit: Bénissons ce flambeau! Lamoureux pantelant incliné sur sa belle A lair d’un moribond caressant son tombeau.

Que tu viennes du ciel ou de !’enfer, qu'importe, © Beauté! monstre énorme, effrayant, ingénu!

Si ton ceil, ton souris, ton pied, m’ouvrent la porte D’un Infini que j'aime et n’ai jamais connu?

SPLEEN ET IDEAL 187

F De Satan ou de Dieu, qu’importe? Ange ou Siréne, E. Qu'importe, situ rends, — fée aux yeux de velours,

Rythme, parfum, lueur, 6 mon unique reine! — Lunivers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?

¢

21x Les Bijoux

F Latrés chére était nue, et, connaissant mon coeur,

Elle n’avait gardé que ses bijoux sonores, Dont le riche attirail lui donnait lair vainqueur Qu’ont dans leurs jours heureux les esclaves des Mores.

Quand il jette en dansant son bruit vif et moqueur, Ce monde rayonnant de métal et de pierre

Me ravit en extase, et j'aime 4lafureur

Les choses ot le son se méle ala lumiére. ~

Elle était donc couchée et se laissait aimer,

Et du haut du divan elle souriait d’aise

Amon amour profond et doux comme la mer, Qui vers elle montait comme vers sa falaise.

Les yeux fixés sur moi, comme un tigre dompté,

D'un air vague et réveur elle essayait des poses, i ae ‘

Et la candeur unie ala lubricité

Donnait un charme neuf 4ses métamorphoses;

Et son bras et sa jambe, et sa cuisse et ses reins,

Polis comme de I'huile, onduleux comme un cygne, Passaient devant mes yeux clairvoyants et sereins; Etson ventre et ses seins, ces grappes de ma vigne,

S’avancaient, plus c4lins que les Anges du mal, Pour troubler le repos ot! mon &4me était mise,

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188 LES FLEURS DU MAL -

Et pour la déranger du rocher de cristal On, calme et solitaire, elle s’était assise.

Je croyais voir unis par un nouveau dessin

Les hanches de lAntiope au buste d'un imberbe, Tant sa taille faisait ressortir son bassin.

Sur ce teint fauve et brun, le fard était superbe!

—Etlalampe s’étant résignée 4 mourir,

Comme le foyer seu! illuminait la chambre Chaque fois qu’il poussait un flamboyant soupir, Il inondait de sang cette peau couleur d’ambrel

22 Parfum exotique

Quand, les deux yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d’automne, Je respire l’odeur de ton sein chaleureux,

Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux

Qu’éblouissent les feux d’un soleil monotone;

Uneile paresseuse ot la nature donne

Des arbres singuliers et des fruits savoureux;

Des hommes dont le corps est mince et vigoureux, Et des femmes dont !’ceil par sa franchise étonne.

Guidé par ton odeur vers de charmants climats, Je vois un port rempli de voiles et de mats Encor tout fatigués par la vague marine,

Pendant que le parfum des verts tamariniers, Qui circule dans lair et m’enfle Ja narine, Se méle dans mon 4me au chant des mariniers.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL : 23 LaChevelure

4 O toison, moutonnant jusque sur l’encolure! 4 O boucles! O parfum chargé de nonchaloir!

: Extasel Pour peupler ce soir l’alcé6ve obscure 4 Des souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure,

Fi Je la veux agiter dans lair comme un mouchoir!

f Lalangoureuse Asie et la brdlante Afrique, q Tout un monde lointain, absent, presque défunt, 4 Vit dans tes profondeurs, forét aromatique! ; Comme d’autres esprits voguent sur la musique,

. Le mien, 6 mon amour! nage sur ton parfum.

q Jirai la-bas ot l’arbre et homme, pleins de séve, t Se pament longuement sous |’ardeur des climats; q Fortes tresses, soyez la houle quim’enléve! ~ Tu contiens, mer d’ébéne, un éblouissant réve

4 De voiles, de rameurs, de flammes et de mats:

4 ; Un port retentissant oti mon 4me peut boire

t A grands flots le parfum, le son et la couleur

q Ot les vaisseaux, glissant dans l’or et dans la moire 5 Ouvrent leurs vastes bras pour embrasser fa gloire E- D’un ciel pur ot frémit l’éternelle chaleur.

; %

q Je plongerai ma téte amoureuse d’ivresse

q Dans ce noir océan ot l'autre est enfermé;

: Et mon esprit subtil que le roulis caresse

| Saura vous retrouver, 6 féconde paresse,

; Infinis bercements du loisir embaumé!

s Cheveux bleus, pavillon de ténébres tendues

1 Vous me rendez l'azur du ciel] immense et rond;

; Sur les bords duvetés de vos méches tordues

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190 LES FLEURSDUMAL “*. Je m'enivre ardemment des senteurs confondues

De l’huile de coco, du muse et du goudron.

Longtemps! toujours! ma main dans ta criniere lourde Seémera le rubis, la perle et le saphir,

Afin qu’a mon désir tu ne sois jamais sourde!

N'es-tu pas l’oasis ot je réve, et la gourde

Ov je hume 4 longs traits le vin du souvenir?

24 Jetadorealégal...

Je t'adore 2 l'égal de la voftte nocturne,

O vase de tristesse, 6 grande taciturne, Ett’aime d’autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis, Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits, Plus ironiquement accumuler les lieues

Qui séparent mes bras des immensités bleues.

Je m’avance 4 l’attaque, et je grimpe aux assauts, Comme aprés un cadavre un choeur de vermisseaux{ Et je chéris, 6 béte implacable et cruelle!

Jusqu’a cette froideur par ot tu m’es plus belle!

25 Tumettraisl’univers entier dans ta ruelle

Tu mettrais l’univers entier dans taruelle, Femme impure! Lennui rend ton ame cruelle. Pour exercer tes dents ace jeu singulier,

Tl te faut chaque jour un cceur au ratelier.

Tes yeux, illuminés ainsi que des boutiques

Et des ifs flamboyants dans les fétes publiques, Usent insolemment d’un pouvoir emprunte,

Sans connaftre jamais la loi de leur beauté.

et

F 4

SPLEEN ETIDEAL

q Machine aveugle et sourde, en cruautés féconde!

; Salutaire instrument, buveur du sang du monde,

3 Comment n’as-tu pas honte et commentn’as-tu pas B Devant tous les miroirs vu plir tes appas?

f.La grandeurde ce mal od tu te crois savante

} Ne t’a donc jamais fait reculer d’épouvante,

3 Quand la nature, grande en ses desseins cachés

} De toi se sert, 6 femme, 6 reine des péchés,

| — De toi, vil animal, — pour pétrir un génie?

PO fangeuse grandeur! sublime ignominie!

; 26 Sed non satiata

| Bizarre déité, brune comme les nuits,

Au parfum mélangé de musc et de havane,-

+ Cuvre de quelque obi, le Faust de la savane, Sorciére au flanc d’ébéne, enfant des noirs minuits,

§ Je préfére au constance, 4l’opium, au nuits, » Lélixir deta bouche ow l'amour se pavane; | Quand vers toi mes désirs partent en caravane,

F Tes yeux sont la citerne ot boivent mes ennuis.

. ; . | Par ces deux grands yeux noirs, soupiraux de ton ame, © démon sans pitié! verse-moi moins de flamme;

; Jenesuis pas le Styx pour tembrasser neuf fois,

; Hélasl et jene puis, Mégére libertine, ' Pour briser ton courage et te mettre aux abois,

Dans ’enfer de ton Lit devenir Proserpine!

~ + wie

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192 LES FLEURS DU MAL

27 Avec ses vétements ondoyants et nacrés...

Avec ses vétements ondoyants et nacrés,

Méme quand elle marche on croirait qu’elle danse,

Comme ces longs serpents que les jongleurs sacrés

Au botit de leurs batons agitent en cadence.

Comme le sable morne et!’azur des déserts, Insensibles tous deux 2 ’humaine souffrance Comme les longs réseaux de la houle des mers Elle se développe avec indifférence.

‘ Ses yeux polis sont faits de minéraux charmants,

Et dans cette nature étrange et symbolique Ou lange inviolé se méle au sphinx antique,

Ou tout n’est qu’or, acier, lumiére et diamants, Resplendit 4 jamais, comme un astre inutile, La froide majesté de la femme stérile

28 LeSerpent qui danse

Que j’aime voir, chére indolente, De ton corps si beau, Comme une étoffe vacillante,

Miroiter la peau!

Sur ta chevelure profonde Aux Acres parfums, Mer odorante et vagabonde

Aux flots bleus et bruns,

Comme un navire qui s'éveille

Au vent du matin,

a

. 4 Mon ame réveuse appareille

4 : Pour un ciel lointain.

qq Tes yeux, ot rien ne se révele

q De doux ni d’amer,

E Sont deux bijoux froids ot se méle a Lor avec le fer.

4

; 3 Ate voir marcher en cadence,

f Belle d’abandon,

B On dirait un serpent qui danse

Au bout d’un baton.

q Sous le fardeau de ta paresse 4 Ta téte d’enfant

} Se balance avec la mollesse f D'un jeune éléphant,

f Ettoncorpsse penche ets’allonge * Comme un fin vaisseau f Quiroule bord sur bord et plonge

Ses vergues dans l'eau.

Comme un flot grossi par lafonte Des glaciers grondants,

$ §©Quand |’eau de ta bouche remonte Au bord de tes dents,

Je crois boire un vin de Bohéme, ( Amer et vainqueur,

Un ciel liquide qui pars¢me D'étoiles mon coeur!

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

193

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194 LES FLEURS DU MAL

29 Une Charogne

Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vimes, mon 4me, Ce beau matin d'été si doux:

Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infame Sur un lit semé de cailloux,

Les jambes en l’air, comme une femme lubrique, Brfilante et suant les poisons,

Ouvrait d’une facon nonchalante et cynique Son ventre plein d’exhalaisons.

Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture, Comme afin de la cuire 4 point,

Et de rendre au centuple 4 la grande Nature Tout ce qu’ensemble elle avait joint;

Et le ciel regardait la carcasse superbe Comme une fleur s’€panouir.

La puanteur était si forte, que sur "herbe Vous crfites vous €vanoulr.

Les mouches bourdonnaient sur ce ventre putride, D’ot sortaient de noirs bataillons De larves, qui coulaient comme un épais liquide

Le long de ces vivants haillons.

Tout cela descendait, montait comme une vague Ou sélancait en pétillant; On eft dit que le corps, enflé d’un soufile vague,

Vivait en se multipliant.

Et ce monde rendait une étrange musique, Comme l’eau courante et le vent, Ou le grain qu’un vanneur d’un mouvement rythmique

Agite et tourne dans son van. .

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

F Les formes s’effagaient et n’étaient plus qu'un réve, s Une ébauche lente 4 venir ‘ Surla toile oubliée, et que lartiste achéve

: Seulement par le souvenir.

bY Derriére les rochers une chienne inquiéte E. Nous regardait d’un ceil faché,

4 Epiant le moment de reprendre au squelette Le morceau qu'elle avait laché.

.. —Etpourtant vous serez semblable 4 cette ordure,

Acette horrible infection,

q Etoile de mes yeux, solei! de ma nature,

Vous, mon ange et ma passion!

Oui! telle vous serez, 6 la reine des graces,

Aprés les derniers sacrements,

{- Quand vous irez, sous 'herbe et les floraisons grasses,

Moisir parmi les ossements.

Alors, 6 ma beauté! dites 4la vermine Qui vous mangera de baisers, Que j’ai gardé la forme et !’essence divine

De mes amours décomposés!

30 De profundis clamavi

Jimplore ta pitié, Toi, ’unique que j'aime, Du fond du gouffre obscur of! mon coeur est tombé. C’est un univers morne 4|‘horizon plombé,

Ov nagent dans la nuit Phorreur et le blasphéme;

Un soleil sans chaleur plane au-dessus six mois,

Etles six autres mois la nuit couvre la terre;

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196 LES FLEURS DU MAL

C'est un pays plus nu que la terre polaire — Ni bétes, ni ruisseaux, niverdure, ni bois!

Oril n’est pas d’horreur au monde quisurpasse La froide cruauté de ce soleil de glace ‘Ft cette immense nuit semblable au vieux Chaos;

Je jalouse le sort des plus vils animaux Qui peuvent se plonger dans un sommeil stupide, Tant l’écheveau du temps lentement se dévide!

31 Le Vampire

Toi qui, comme un coup de couteau,

Dans mon coeur plaintif es entrée; Toi qui, forte comme un troupeau De démons, vins, folle et parée,

De mon esprit humilié Faire ton lit et ton domaine; — infame & quije suis lié Comme le forgat 4 la chaine,

Comme au jeu le joueur tétu, Comme 4 la bouteille l'ivrogne, Comme aux vermines la charogne

— Maudite, maudite sois-tul

J'ai prié le glaive rapide

De conquérir ma liberté, Etj’ai dit au poison perfide De secourir ma lacheté.

™ ff

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

“g i

q Hélas! le poison etle glaive - t M’ont pris en dédain et m’ont dit: 4 «Tu n’es pas digne qu’on t’enléve A ton esclavage maudit,

y q

it

7

), hte ;

. Imbécile! — de son empire e Si nos efforts te délivraient, B Tes baisers ressusciteraient

F Le cadavre de ton vampire!»

E 31x Le Léthé

F Viens sur mon cceur, Ame cruelle et sourde,

; : Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents;

q Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants FDans l’épaisseur de ta criniére lourde; -

y Dans tes jupons remplis de ton parfum : q Ensevelir ma téte endolorie,

B.. Etrespirer, comme une fleur flétrie,

p. Le doux relent de mon amour défunt.

Je veux dormir! dormir plutét que vivre! ¥° Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort, ; J’étaleraimesbaiserssansremords

: Surton beau corps poli comme le cuivre.

q Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés

: Rien ne me vaut ]'abime de ta couche; F Loubli puissant habite sur ta bouche, B Et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers.

5. Amon destin, désormais mon délice,

E Jobéirai comme un prédestiné;

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198 LES FLEOURS DUMAL .

Martyr docile, innocent condamné,

Dont la ferveur attise le supplice,

Je sucerai, pour noyer ma rancocur,

Le népenthés et la bonne cigué

Aux bouts charmants de cette gorge aigué Quin’a jamais emprisonné de coeur.

32 Une nuit que j’étais pres d'une affreuse Juive...

Une nuit que j'étais prés d'une affreuse Juive, Comme au long d’un cadavre un cadavre étendu, Je me pris 4 songer prés de ce corps vendu

A latriste beauté dont mon désir se prive.

Je me représentai sa majesté native,

Son regard de vigueur et de graces armé,

Ses cheveux qui lui font un casque parfumé, Et dont le souvenir pour l’amour me ravive.

Car j'eusse avec ferveur baisé ton noble corps, Et depuis tes pieds frais jusqu’a tes noires tresses

Déroulé le trésor des profondes caresses,

Si, quelque soir, d'un pleur obtenu sans effort Tu pouvais seulement, 6 reine des cruelles! Obscurcir la splendeur de tes froides prunelles.

33 Remords posthume

Lorsque tu dormiras, ma belle ténébreuse, Au fond d'un monument construit en marbre noir, Et lorsque tu n’auras pour alcéve et manoir

Qu’un caveau pluvieux et qu'une fosse creuse;

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

Quand la pierre, opprimant ta poitrine peureuse Et tes flancs qu’assouplit un charmant nonchaloir, Empéchera ton coeur de battre et de vouloir,

Et tes pieds de courir leur course aventureuse,

Le tombeau, confident de mon réve infini (Car le tombeau toujours comprendra le poéte),

Durant ces grandes nuits d’ot le somme est banni,

f Te dira: «Que vous sert, courtisane imparfaite,

De n’avoir pas connu ce que pleurent les morts?»

— Et le ver rongera ta peau comme un remords.

34 LeChat

Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amopreux;

+ Retiens les griffes de ta patte,

Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux,

- Mélés de métal et d’agate.

Lorsque mes doigts caressent 4 loisir Ta téte et ton dos élastique, Et que ma main s’enivre du plaisir

De palper ton corps électrique,

Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard, ; . Comme le tien, aimable béte

, Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard,

; Et, des pieds jusques 4 la téte, + Unairsubtil, un dangereux parfum

Nagent autour de son corps brun.

199

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200 LES FLEURS DU MAL

35 Duellum

Deux guerriers ont couru !’un sur l’autre, leurs armes

Ont éclaboussé lair de lueurs et de sang. Ces jeux, oes cliquetis du fer sont les vacarmes D’une jeunesse en proie a |’amour vagissant.

Les glaives sont brisés! comme notre jeunesse, Ma chére! Mais les dents, les ongles acérés, Vengent bientét l’épée et la dague traftresse.

~ Ofureur des coeurs mrs par l'amour ulcérés!

Dans le ravin hanté des chats-pards et des onces Nos héros, s’étreignant méchamment, ont roulé, Et leur peau fleurira l'aridité des ronces.

— Ce gouftre, c'est l’enfer, de nos amis peuple! Roulons-y sans remords, amazone inhumaine, Afin d’éterniser ardeur de notre hainel!

36 Le Balcon

Mére des souvenirs, maitresse des mattresses, O toi, tous mes plaisirs! 6 toi, tous mes devoirs! Tu te rappelleras la beauté des caresses,

La douceur du foyer et le charme des soirs, Mére des souvenirs, maftresse des maitresses!

Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon, Et les soirs au balcon, voilés de vapeurs roses.

Que ton sein m’était doux! que ton coeur m’était bon!

Nous avons dit souvent d'impérissables choses Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

* Que les soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées! Que l’espace est profond! que le cceur est puissant! Enme penchant vers toi, reine des adorées,

|, Je croyais respirer le parfum de ton sang.

' Queles soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées!

% La nuit s’€paississait ainsi qu’une cloison,

¢. Etmes yeux dans le noir devinaient tes prunelles,

L Et je buvais ton souffle, 6 douceur! 6 poison!

, Ettes pieds s'endormaient dans mes mains fraternelles. } Lanuit s’€paississait ainsi qu’une cloison.

5 Je sais l'art d'évoquer les minutes heureuses,

q Et revis mon passé blotti dans tes genoux.

f. Cara quoi bon chercher tes beautés langoureuses

q Ailleurs qu'en ton cher corps et qu'en ton cceur si doux? " Je sais l'art d’évoquer les minutes heureusesi

F Ces serments, ces partums, ces baisers infinis,

f Renaitront-ils d'un gouffre interdit 4 nos sondes, Comme montent au ciel les soleils rajeunis Aprés s’étre lavés au fond des mers profondes?

— O serments! 6 parfums! 6 baisers infinis!

37. Le Possédé .

Le soleil s'est couvert d’un crépe. Comme lui,

O Lune de ma viel emmitoufle-toi d’ombre

, Dors ou fume ton gré; sois muette, sois sombre, 4 Et plonge tout entiére au gouffre de !/Ennui :

Je t'aime ainsi! Pourtant, situ veux aujourd’hui, Comme un astre éclipsé qui sort dela pénombre, Te pavaner aux lieux que la Folie encombre

C'est bien! Charmant poignard, jaillis de ton étuil

201

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202 LES FLEURS DU MAL zm

Allume ta prunelle 4 la flamme des lustres! Allume le désir dans les regards des rustres! Tout de toi m’est plaisir, morbide ou pétulant;

Sois ce que tu voudras, nuit noire, rouge aurore; II n’est pas une fibre en tout mon corps tremblant Quine crie: O mon cher Belzébuth, je t'adore!

38 Un Fantéme

I. Les Ténébres

Dans les caveaux d’insondable tristesse Ot le Destin m’a déja relégué;

Ov jamais n’entre un rayon rose et gal; On, seul avec la Nuit, maussade hotesse,

Je suis comme un peintre qu’un Dieu moqueur Condamne 4 peindre, hélas! sur les ténébres; Ou, cuisinier aux appétits funébres,

Je fais bouillir et je mange mon coeur,

Par instants brille, et s’allonge, et s’étale Un spectre fait de grace et de splendeur. Asa réveuse allure orientale,

Quand il atteint sa totale grandeur,

Je reconnais ma belle visiteuse: C’est Elle! noire et pourtant lumineuse. II. Le Parfum

Lecteur, as-tu quelquefois respiré Avec ivresse et lente gourmandise

| Cegrain d’encens quiremplit une église, ' Oud'un sachet le musc invétéré?

3 Charme profond, magique, dont nous grise + Dansle présent le passé restaurél

’ Ainsil’amant sur un corps adoré

} Du souvenir cueille la fleur exquise.

i Deses cheveux élastiques et lourds, ¥. Vivant sachet, encensoir de l’alcéve,

: Une senteur montait, sauvage et fauve,

{ Etdes habits, mousseline ou velours, $ Toutimprégnés de sa jeunesse pure, b Se dégageait un parfum de fourrure.

P IIL Le Cadre ; Comme un beau cadre ajoute 4 la peinture,

Bien qu'elle soit d’un pinceau trés-vante, Je ne sais quoi d’étrange et denchanté En/’isolant de l'immense nature,

Ainsi bijoux, meubles, métaux, dorure,

: S'’adaptaient juste a sa rare beauté;

Rien n’offusquait sa parfaite clarté,

Et tout semblait lui servir de bordure.

Méme on eft dit parfois qu’elle croyait Que tout voulait l’aimer; elle noyait Sa nudité voluptueusement

Dans les baisers du satin et du linge, Et, lente ou brusque, 4 chaque mouvement Montrait la grace enfantine du singe.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

203

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204 LES FLEURS DU MAL

ros

*

IV. Le Portrait

La Maladie et la Mort font des cendres

De tout le feu qui pour nous flamboya.

De ces grands yeux si fervents et si tendres, De cette bouche of mon coeur se noya,

De ces baisers puissants comme un dictame, De ces transports plus vifs que des rayons, Que reste-t-il? C’est affreux, 6 mon 4mel!

Rien qu’un dessin fort pale, aux trois crayons,

Qui, comme moi, meurt dans la solitude, Et que le Temps, injurieux vieillard, Chaque jour frotte avec son aile rude...

Noir assassin de la Vie et de l’Art, Tu ne tueras jamais dans ma mémoire Celle qui fut mon plaisir et ma gloire!

39 Jete donne ces vers afin que simonnom... f

Je te donne ces vers afin que si mon nom

Aborde heureusement aux époques lointaines,

Et fait réver un soir les cervelles humaines,

Vaisseau favorisé par un grand aquilon,

Ta mémoire, pareille aux fables incertaines, Fatigue le lecteur ainsi qu’un tympanon,

Et par un fraternel et mystique chafnon Reste comme pendue 4 mes rimes hautaines;

Etre maudit a qui, de l’abtme profond Jusqu’au plus haut du ciel, rien, hors moi, ne répond! — Otoi qui, comme une ombre 4 la trace éphémére,

4 SPLEEN ET IDEAL

. oules d’un pied léger et d’un regard serein

E ‘Les stupides mortels qui t’ont jugée amére, A Statue aux yeux de jais, grand ange au front d’airain!

“¢)

140 Semper eadem

f

BR «D’ot vous vient, disiez-vous, cette tristesse étrange, : Montant comme la mer sur le roc noir et nu?»

; — Quand notre cceur a fait une fois sa vendange

K Vivre est un mal. C’est un secret de tous connu, f Une douleur trés simple et non mystérieuse

aw

Fe Et, comme votre joie, éclatante pour tous. ® Cessez donc de chercher, 6 belle curicuse! f Et, bien que votre voix soit douce, taisez-vous!

ve

3 Taisez-vous, ignorante! me toujours raviel

~~

F Bouche au rire enfantin! Plus encor que la Vie,

p. La Mort nous tient souvent par des liens subtils.

} Laissez, laissez mon cceur s’enivrer d'un mensonge,

f Plonger dans vos beaux yeux comme dans un beau songe § Etsommeiller longtemps a!’ombre de vos cilst

P 41 Tout entiére

f Le Démon, dans ma chambre haute r Ce matin est venu me voir,

} Et, tachant 4 me prendre en faute

f Me dit: «Je voudrais bien savoir

| Parmi toutes les belles choses § Dont est fait son enchantement,

205

a A Fje 1k te

206 LES FLEURS DU MAL a

Parmi les objets noirs ou roses Qui composent son corps charmant,

Quel est le plus doux.» ~ 6 mon ame! Tu répondis a l’Abhorré:

«Puisqu’en Elle tout est dictame

Rien ne peut étre préféré.

Lorsque tout me ravit, j’ignore Si quelque chose me séduit. Elle éblouit comme l’Aurore Et console comme la Nuit;

Et 'harmonie est trop exquise, Qui gouverne tout son beau corps, Pour que l’impuissante analyse En note les nombreux accords.

O métamorphose mystique De tous mes sens fondus en un! Son haleine fait la musique, Comme sa voix fait le parfuml»

42 Que diras-tuce soir...

Que diras-tu ce soir, pauvre 4me solitaire, Que diras-tu, mon coeur, coeur autrefois flétri, A latrés belle, ala trés bonne, alatras chére, Dont le regard divin t’a soudain refleuri?

— Nous mettrons notre orgueil 4 chanter ses louanges:

Rien ne vaut la douceur de son autorité Sa chair spirituelle ale parfum des Anges Et son ceil nous revét d’un habit de clarté.

SPLEEN ETIDEAL 207

4 Que ce soit dans la nuit et dans la solitude

j Que ce soit dans larue et dans la multitude

Son fant6me dans l’air danse comme un flambeau.

§ Parfoisil parle et dit: «Je suis belle, et jtordonne

! Que pour l’amour de moi vous n’aimiez que le Beau;

t Jesuis Ange gardien, la Muse et la Madone.»

- 43 Le Flambeau vivant

)

E is marchent devant moi, ces Yeux pleins de lumieéres, f Qu’ un Ange trés savant a sans doute aimantés;

S Ils marchent, ces divins fréres qui sont mes fréres,

r , Secouant dans mes yeux leurs feux diamantés.

E Me sauvant de tout piége et de tout péché grave, q f Us conduisent mes pas dans la route du Beau;

F Ts sont mes serviteurs et je suis leur esclave;

! f. Tout mon étre obéit a ce vivant flambeau.

F Charmants Yeux, vous brillez de la clarté mystique B Qu’ ont les cierges brdlant en plein jour; le soleil } B saat mais n’éteint pas leur flamme fantastique;

; Is célébrent la Mort, vous chantez le Réveil;" ¢ Vous marchez en chantant le réveil de mon ame, E Astres dont nul soleil ne peut flétrir la flamme!

43x Acelle qui est trop gaie

Ta téte, ton geste, ton air

E Sont beaux comme un beau paysage;

} Le rire joue en ton visage

| Comme un vent frais dans un ciel clair.

¢

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208 LES FLEURS DU MAke

Le passant chagrin que tu fréles Est ébloui par la santé

Qui jaillit comme une clarté

De tes bras et de tes épaules.

Les retentissantes couleurs Dont tu parsémes tes toilettes Jettent dans l’esprit des poétes Limage d'un ballet de fleurs.

Ces robes folles sont l’embléme De ton esprit bariolé;

Folle dont je suis affolé,

Je te hais autant que je t'aime!

Quelquefois dans un beau jardin Ot je trainais mon atonie,

J'ai senti, comme une ironie,

Le soleil déchirer mon sein,

Et le printemps et la verdure Ont tant humilié mon cceur, Que j’ai punisur une fleur Linsolence de la Nature.

Ainsi je voudrais, une nuit,

Quand l'heure des voluptés sonne,

Vers les trésors de ta personne,

Comme un lache, ramper sans bruit,

Pour chatier ta chair joyeuse, Pour meurtrir ton sein pardonné, Et faire 4 ton flanc étonné

Une blessure large et creuse,

Et, vertigineuse douceur! Atravers ces lévres nouvelles, Plus éclatantes et plus belles,

T’infuser mon venin, masceur!

‘

44 Réversibilité

# Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous langoisse,

La honte, les remords, les sanglots, les ennuis,

R Etles vagues terreurs de ces affreuses nuits

Qui compriment le coeur comme un papier qu’on froisse?

1 Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse?

| Ange plein de bonté, connaissez-vous la haine,

Les poings crispés dans l’ombre et les larmes de fiel,

: Quand la Vengeance bat son infernal rappel, ® Etdenos facultés se fait le capitaine? | Ange plein de bonté, connaissez-vous la haine?

k Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fiévres, F Qui, le long des grands murs de |"hospice blafard, q Comme des exilés, s'en vont d’un pied trainard, 4 Cherchant le soleil rare et remuant les lévres?

? Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fi¢vres?

%,

. Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides,

3 _ Etlapeur de vieillir, et ce hideux tourment

EF De lire lasecréte horreur du dévouement

F Dans des yeux ot longtemps burent nos yeux avide!

§ Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides?

' Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumiéres, :. David mourant aurait demandeé la santé

f Aux émanations de ton corps enchanté;

SPLEEN ETIDEAL

209

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ea A eS we ee ed ee RE oo

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210 LES FLEURS DU MAL

- # Mais de toi je n’'implore, ange, que tes priéres, Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumiéres!

45 Confession

Une fois, une seule, aimable et douce femme, Amon bras votre bras poli

S’appuya (sur le fond ténébreux de mon Ame Ce souvenir n'est point pAli);

II était tard; ainsi qu'une médaille neuve La pleine lune s‘étalait,

Et lasolennité de ]a nuit, comme un fleuve, Sur Paris dormant ruisselait.

Et le long des maisons, sous les portes cochéres,

Des chats passaient furtivement

Loreille au guet, ou bien, comme des ombres chéres, Nous accompagnaient lentement.

Tout 4 coup, au milieu de Vintimité libre f - Eclose 4 la pale clarté

De vous, riche et sonore instrument ot: ne vibre

Que la radieuse gaieté,

De vous, claire et joyeuse ainsi qu'une fanfare Dans le matin étincelant

Une note plaintive, une note bizarre S'échappa, tout en chancelant

Comme une enfant chétive, horrible, sombre, immonde, Dont sa famille rougirait,

Et qu’elle aurait longtemps, pour la cacher au monde, Dans un caveau mise au secret.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

4 Pauvre ange, elle chantait, votre note criarde:

4 «Que rien ici-bas n’est certain,

4 Et que toujours, avec quelque soin qu'il se farde, S Setrahit légoisme humain;

q Que c'est un dar métier que d’étre belle femme, y Etquec'est le travail banal

De la danseuse folle et froide qui se pame

q Dans son sourire machina];

q Que batir sur les coeurs est une chose sotte;

F Que tout craque, amour et beauté,

4 Jusqu’a ce que l'Oubliles jette dans sa hotte

q Pour les rendre 4]’Eternitél»

, J’ai souvent évoqué cette lune enchantée, . Ce silence et cette langueur,

F Et cette confidence horrible chuchotée + Auconfessionnal du cceur.

q 46 LaAube spirituelle

4 Quand chez les débauchés l’aube blanche et vermeille B Entre en société de ’Idéal rongeur,

4 Par l’opération d’un mystére vengeur

; Dans la brute assoupie un ange se réveille.

| Des Cieux Spirituels l'inaccessible azur,

Pour l’homme terrassé qui réve encore et souffre, S’ouvre ét s’enfonce avec l’attirance du gouffre.

r Ainsi, chére Déesse, Etre lucide et pur,

» Sur les débris fumeux des stupides orgies k Ton souvenir plus clair, plus rose, plus charmant, t Ames yeux agrandis voltige incessamment.

211

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SAL SER ee Pe Sy

HH Ae | ae OF

ee

212 LES FLEURS DU MAL

= : Le soleil a noirci la flamme des bougies; Ainsi, toujours vainqueur, ton fant6éme est pareil, Ame resplendissante, a immortel soleil!

47 Harmonie dusoir

Voici venir les temps ov vibrant sur sa tige Chaque fleur s’€vapore ainsi qu'un encensoir; Les sons et les parfums tournent dans |'air du soir;

;

Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!

Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir;

Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige; Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!

Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.

Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,

Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!

Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir; Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.

Un cceur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir, Du passé luminevux recueille tout vestige!

Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang quise fige... Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!

48 LeFlacon

Il est de forts parfums pour qui toute matiére Est poreuse. On dirait qu’ils pénétrent le verre. En ouvrant un coffret venu de !’Orient

Dont la serrure grince et rechigne en criant,

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

% u dans une maison déserte quelque armoire hPleine de l’acre odeur des temps, poudreuse et noire, E Parfois on trouve un vieux flacon qui se souvient, ED'od jaillit toute vive une Ame qui revient.

i

E Mille pensers dormaient, chrysalides funébres, }Frémissant doucement dans les lourdes ténébres, Qui dégagent leur aile et prennent leur essor,

: eintés d’azur, glacés de rose, lamés d’or.

Voila le souvenir enivrant qui voitige

: ‘Dans lair troublé; les yeux se ferment; le Vertige F Saisit l'ame vaincue et la pousse 4 deux mains

: Vers un gouffre obscurci de miasmes humains;

{ I a terrasse au bord d’un gouffre séculaire,

1 Ou, Lazare odorant déchirant son suaire,

; Se meut dans son réveil le cadavre spectral

: D’un vieil amour ranci, charmant et sépulcral.

B. Ainsi, quand je serai perdu dans la mémoire

q Des hommes, dans le coin d’une sinistre armoire 4 Quand on m’aura jeté, vieux flacon désolé,

q Décrépit, poudreux, sale, abject, visqueux, félé, E: Je serai ton cercueil, aimable pestilence!

q Le témoin de ta force et de ta virulence,

4 Cher poison préparé par les anges! liqueur { Qui me ronge, 6 la vie et la mort de mon coeur!

213

F ete el

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Boe We Eye mae

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214 LES FLEURS BDU MAL

49 Le Poison

Le vin sait revétir le plus sordide bouge

D’un luxe miraculeux,

Et fait surgir plus d'un portique fabuleux

Dans l’or de sa vapeur rouge,

opium agrandit ce qui n’a pas de bornes, Allonge Villimité, Approfondit le temps, creuse la volupté,

Et de plaisirs noirs et mornes

Remplit l’Gme au dela de sa capacité.

Tout cela ne vaut pas le poison qui découle De tes yeux, de tes yeux verts,

Lacs oi mon 4me tremble et se voit 4 'envers.. .

re Mes songes viennent en foule

Pour se désaltérer a ces gouffres amers.

Tout cela ne vaut pas le terrible prodige

i i De ta salive qui mord, Qui plonge dans l’oubli mon 4me sans remords,

Et charriant le vertige,

La roule défaillante aux rives de la mort!

50 Ciel brouillé

wi On dirait ton regard d’une vapeur couvert;

Ton ceil mystérieux (est-i] bleu, gris ou vert?)

Alternativement tendre, réveur, cruel, Réfléchit Pindolence et la paleur du ciel.

Comme un soleil couchant dans un ciel nébuleux.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

. Tu rappelles ces jours blancs, tiédes et voilés,

. Qui font se fondre en pleurs les cceurs ensorcelés, * Quand, agités d’un mal inconnu quiles tord,

; Les nerfs trop éveillés raillent l’esprit qui dort.

Tu ressembles parfois a ces beaux horizons

E Qu’allument les soleils des brumeuses saisons...

q Comme tu resplendis, paysage mouillé

f Quenflammentles rayons tombant d’un ciel brouillé!

»

fF Ofemme dangereuse, 6 séduisants climats! - Adorerai-je aussi ta neige et vos frimas,

Et saurai-je tirer de l'implacable hiver Des plaisirs plus aigus gue la glace et le fer?

j 51 LeChat

I

Dans ma cervelle se proméne, _ Ainsi qu’en son appartement,

Un beau chat, fort, doux et charmant. Quand il miaule, on l’entend 4 peine,

Tant son timbre est tendre et discret; Mais que sa voix s’apaise ou gronde, Elle est toujours riche et profonde. C’est lison charme et son secret.

Cette voix, qui perle et qui filtre

» .Dans mon fonds le plus ténébreux,

Me remplit comme un vers nombreux Etme réjouit comme un philtre.

215

216 LES FLEURS DU MAL rs

Elle endort les plus cruels maux

Et contient toutes les extases;

Pour dire les plus longues phrases,

Elle n'a pas besoin de mots.

Non, il n'est pas d’archet qui morde Sur mon coeur, parfait instrument, Et fasse plus royalement

Chanter sa plus vibrante corde,

Que ta voix, chat mystérieux,

Chat séraphique, chat étrange,

En qui tout est, comme en un ange, Aussi subtil qu’harmonieux!

II.

De safourrure blonde et brune Sort un parfum si doux, qu’un soir Jen fus embaumé, pour l'avoir Caressée une fois, rien qu'une.

C'est l’esprit familier du lieu;

II juge, i] préside, ilinspire Toutes choses dans son empire; Peut-étre est-il fée, est-il dieu?

Quand mes yeux, vers ce chat que j'aime Tirés comme par un aimant,

Se retournent docilement

Et que je regarde en moi-méme,

Je vois avec étonnement Le feu de ses prunelles piles, Clairs fanaux, vivantes opales

Qui me contemplent fixement.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL , 52 Le Beau Navire

q Je veux te raconter, 6 molle enchanteresse!

4 Les diverses beautés qui parent ta jeunesse;

; Je veux te peindre ta beauté,

¥ Ou l'enfance s’allie 4a maturité.

: Quand tu vas balayant l’air de ta jupe large,

i Tu fais l’effet d'un beau vaisseau qui prend le large, ’ Chargé de toile, et va roulant

. Suivant un rythme doux, et paresseux, et lent. Sur ton cou large et rond, sur tes épaules grasses, Ta téte se pavane avec d’étranges graces;

D'un air placide et triomphant

Tu passes ton chemin, majestueuse enfant.

4 Je veux te raconter, 6 molle enchanteresse!

Les diverses beautés qui parent ta jeunesse;

f} Je veux te peindre ta beauté,

| Oulenfance s’allie ala maturité.

Ta gorge quis’avance et qui pousse la moire, E Ta gorge triomphante est une belle armoire : Dontles panneaux bombés et clairs

f Comme les boucliers accrochent des éclairs;

Boucliers provoquants, armés de pointes roses! Armoire 4 doux secrets, pleine de bonnes choses, De vins, de parfums, de liqueurs

i

Qui feraient délirer les cerveaux et les cceurs!

Quand tu vas balayant V'air de ta jupe large

Tu fais l’effet d’un beau vaisseau qui prend le large, Chargé de toile, et va roulant

Suivant un rythme doux, et paresseux, et lent.

217

+

De i wa &

218 LES FLEURS DU MAL «&

Tes nobles jambes, sous les volants qu’elles chassent, Tourmentent les désirs obscurs et les agacent, Comme deux sorciéres qui font

Tourner un philtre noir dans un vase profond.

Tes bras, qui se joueraient des précoces hercules, Sont des boas Inisants les solides émules, Faits pour serrer obstinément,

Comme pour I’imprimer dans ton coeur, ton amant.

Sur ton cou large et rond, sur tes épaules grasses, Ta téte se pavane avec d’étranges graces; D’un air placide et triomphant

Tu passes ton chemin, majestueuse enfant.

53 LInvitation au voyage

Mon enfant, ma sceur,

Songe ala douceur

D’aller la-bas vivre ensemble! Aimer 2 loisir,

Aimer et mourir

Au pays quite ressemble!

Les soleils mouillés

De ces ciels brouillés

Pour mon esprit ont les charmes Simystérieux

De tes traitres yeux,

Brillant 4 travers leurs larmes.

La, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL 4

Des meubles luisants,

4 : Polis par les ans,

a Décoreraient notre chambre;

4 Les plus rares fleurs

4 Mélant leurs odeurs

we *

Bie,4

q Aux vagues senteurs de l’ambre,

1 Les riches plafonds,

7 Les miroirs profonds,

4 Lasplendeur orientale,

= Tout y parlerait

q , Al’Ame en secret

z Sa douce langue natale. :

: | La, tout n'est qu’ordre et beauté,

, 4 Luxe, calme et volupté.

4 Vois sur ces canaux a B Dormir ces vaisseaux

| 4 Dént)‘humeur est vagabonde;

| 4 C'est pour assouvir

bi Ton moindre désir

j Qu’ils viennent du bout du monde. 4 — Les soleils couchants

4 Revétent les champs,

f Les canaux, la ville entiére,

f D’hyacinthe et d'or;

4 Le monde s’endort

4 Dans une chaude lumieére.

E La, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté, ; ; Luxe, calme et volupté.

ark

219

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220 LES FLEURS DU MAL 54 L'Irréparable

Pouvons-nous étouffer le vieux, le long Remords, F Qui vit, s'agite et se tortille

Ft se nourrit de nous comme le ver des morts,

Comme du chéne la chenille?

Pouvons-nous étouffer l'implacable Remords?

Dans quel philtre, dans quel vin, dans quelle tisane, Noierons-nous ce vieil ennemi,

Destructeur et gourmand comme la courtisane,

Patient comme la fourmi? _

Dans quel philtre? — dans quel vin? — dans quelle tisane?

Dis-le, belle sorciére, oh! dis, situ le sais, Acet esprit comblé d’angoisse

Et pareil au mourant qu’écrasent les blessés, Que le sabot du cheval froisse,

Dis-le, belle sorciére, oh! dis, situ le sais,

Acet agonisant que le loup déja flaire / Et que surveille le corbeau,

Ace soldat brisé! s’il faut qu'il désespere

D’avoir sa croix et son tombeau;

Ce pauvre agonisant que déja le loup flaire!

Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir? Peut-on déchirer des ténébres

Plus denses que la poix, sans matin et sans soir, Sans astres, sans éclairs f{unébres?

Peut-on tlluminer un ciel bourbeux et noir?

L’Espérance qui brille aux carreaux de l'Auberge Est soufflée, est morte 4 jamais! Sans lune et sans rayons, trouver ot l’on héberge

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

} Les martyrs d’un chemin mauvais! Le Diable a tout éteint aux carreaux de l’Auberge!

: Adorable sorciére, aimes-tu les damnés?

. Dis, connais-tn l’irrémissible?

y Connais-tu le Remords, aux traits empoisonnés, ¢ A quinotre coeur sert de cible?

' Adorable sorciére, aimes-tu les damnés?

f LIrréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite

F’ Notre ame, piteux monument,

4 Et souvent il attaque ainsi que le termite, Par la base le batiment.

4 UIrréparable ronge avec sa dent mauditel

. —J’aivu parfois, au fond d’un théatre banal Quwenflammaitl’orchestre sonore, _ a Une fée allumer dans un ciel infernal

f Une miraculeuse aurore;

® J’ai vu parfois au fond d'un théatre banal

| Un étre, qui n’était que lumieére, or et gaze,

| Terrasser ’énorme Satan;

3 Mais mon cceur, que jamais ne visite l'extase, j Est un théatre ot: l'on attend

y Toujours, toujours en vain, l’Etre aux ailes de'gazel

¢ 55 Causerie

b Vous étes un beau ciel d’automne, clair et rose! f Mais latristesse en moi monte comme la mer, F Etlaisse, en refluant, sur ma lévre morose

e Lesouvenir cuisant de son limon amer.

221

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as

~ Oe

ne tnt Bae A tee

je

222 LES FLEURS DU MAL

— Ta main se glisse en vain sur mon sein qui se pame; Ge qu’elle cherche, amie, est un lieu saccagé

Par la griffe et la dent féroce de la femme.

Ne cherchez plus mon coeur; les bétes l’ont mangé.

Mon cceur est un palais flétri par la cohue; On s’y sofile, on s’y tue, on s’y prend aux cheveux! — Un parfum nage autour de votre gorge nue!...

O Beauté, dur fléau des ames, tu le veux! Avec tes yeux de feu, brillants comme des fétes, Calcine ces lambeaux qu'ont épargnés les bétes!

56 Chant d’automne

I.

Bient6t nous plongerons dans les froides ténébres; Adieu, vive clarté de nos étés trop courts! J’entends déja tomber avec des chocs funébres

Le bois retentissant sur le pavé des cours.

Tout l’‘hiver va rentrer dans mon étre: colére, Haine, frissons, horreur, labeur dur et forcé,

Et, comme le soleil dans son enfer polaire,

Mon cceur ne sera plus qu’un bloc rouge et-glacé.

Jécoute en frémissant chaque bache qui tombe; Léchafaud qu’on batit n’a pas d’écho plus sourd. Mon esprit est pareil 4 la tour qui succombe Sous les coups du bélier infatigable et lourd.

II me semble, bercé par ce choc monotone,

Qu’on cloue en grande hate un cercueil quelque part. Pour qui? — C’était hier ]'été; voici tautomne!

Ce bruit mystérieux sonne comme un départ.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

ae

J'aime de vos longs yeux la lumiére verdatre,

4 Douce beauté, mais tout aujourd'hui m’est amer, 4 Et rien, ni votre amour, ni le boudoir, ni !’atre,

K Ne me vaut le soleil rayonnant sur la mer.

{ Et pourtant aimez-moi, tendre cceur! soyez mére, B-Méme pour un ingrat, méme pour un méchant; p Amante ou soeur, soyez la douceur éphémére D’un glorieux automne ou d'un soleil couchant. &

E _ Courte tiche! La tombe attend; elleest avide!

q Ahl laissez-moi, mon front posé sur vos genoux, Godter, en regrettant !’été blanc et torride,

§: Del’arriére-saison le rayon jaune et doux!

; 57 Aune madone t Ex-voto dansle gotit espagnol

, Je veux batir pour toi, Madone, ma maftresse,

| Un autel souterrain au fond de ma détresse,

. Etcreuser dans le coin le plus noir de mon cteur, : Loin du désir mondain et du regard moqueur, Une niche, d‘azur et d'or tout émaillée, ~

Oi tu te dresseras, Statue émerveillée.

Avec mes Vers polis, treillis d'un pur métal

/ Savammentconstellé de rimes de cristal

j Je ferai pour ta téte une énorme Couronne;

Et dans ma Jalousie, 6 mortelle Madone Jesaurai te tailler un Manteau, de fagon

Barbare, roide et lourd, et doublé de soupgon, Qui, comme une guérite, enfermera tes charmes, 4 Non de Perles brodé, mais de toutes mes Larmes!

223

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ss Bt bh kh

ii le

ee) i's a

SPLEEN ETIDEAL 225

A q : ah yl 224 LES FLEURS DU MAL j eT ly |

|; ng HT

at i Ta Robe, ce sera mon Désir, frémissant,

es, ee Ee OF

58 Chanson d’aprés-midi

Y

Fal | Onduleux, mon Désir qui monte et qui descend, | if Aux pointes se balance, aux vallons se repose, + Ge Quoique tes sourcils méchants

ay | Et revét d'un baiser tout ton corps blanc et rose. fee Te donnent un air étrange | 4

i | Je te ferai de mon Respect de beaux Souliers sl _Quin’est pas celui d'un ange,

De satin, par tes pieds divins humiliés, . Sorciére aux yeux alléchants,

Gg

Qui, les emprisonnant dans une molle étreinte

Comme un moule fidéle en garderont l’empreinte. % Je t’adore, 6 ma frivole,

a Sije ne puis, malgré tout mon art diligent a Ma terrible passion! , oH ht Pour Marchepied tailler une Lune d'argent q Avec la dévotion f , | | Je mettrai le Serpent qui me mord les entrailles q Du prétre pour son idole. | Sous tes talons, afin que tu foules et railles | : | Reine victorieuse et féconde en rachats F Le désert et la forét Ce monstre tout gonflé de haine et de crachats. 4 Embaumenttes tresses rudes, Tu verras mes Pensers, rangés comme les Cierges Ta téte a les attitudes

Devant l'autel fleuri de la Reine des Vierges i | DePénigme et du secret. Etoilant de reflets le plafond peint en bleu, q Te regarder toujours avec des yeux de feu; f Sur ta chair le parfum réde Et comme tout en moi te chérit et admire, q Comme autour d’un encensoir; Tout se fera Benjoin, Encens, Oliban, Myrrhe, Tui charmes comme le soir, Et sans cesse vers toi, sommet blanc et neigeux, Nymphe ténébreuse et chaude. En Vapeurs montera mon Esprit orageux. :

4 Ahl les philtres les plus forts Enfin, pour compléter ton réle de Marie, | Ne valent pas ta paresse, Et pour méler l’amour avec la barbarie, a Et tu connais la caresse Volupté noire! des sept Péchés capitaux, Qui fait revivre les morts!

Bourreau plein de remords, je ferai sept Couteaux é

Bi

Bien affilés, et comme un jongleur insensible, | { Tes hanches sont amoureuses Prenant le plus profond de ton amour pour cible, f Deton doset de tes seins,

Je les planterai tous dans ton Coeur pantelant, | Et tu ravis les coussins

Dans ton Coeur sanglotant, dans ton Cceur ruisselant! ; Par tes poses langoureuses.

Quelquefois, pour apaiser Ta rage mystérieuse,

Tu prodigues, sérieuse, La morsure et le baiser;

| | Kh |

fae

a : il

a 226 LES FLEURS DU MAL SPLEEN ET IDEAL —

Tu me déchires, ma brune, 60 Franciscae meae laudes

Avec un rire moqueur, Et puis tu mets sur mon coeur Novis te cantabo chordis, Ton cei] doux-comme la lune. O novelletum quod ludis In solitudine cordis. 3 Sous tes souliers de satin, i | . easy : MR Sous tes charmants pieds de soie, Esto sertis implicata, f a i ui ) Moi, je mets ma grande ‘joie, O femina delicata | Fe uf hi , . Pi 4

- B Mon génie et mon destin, ; Per quam solvuntur peccata! oe Aa é : | (Mab Mon 4me par toi guérie, p. Sicut beneficum Lethe, , Par toi, lumiére et couleur! t Hauriam oscula dete, |

Explosion de chaleur Quae imbuta es magnete.

Dans ma noire Sibérie!

Quum vitiorum tempegtas ‘ ‘ Turbabat omnes semitas, 59 Sisina | Apparuisti, Deitas, ; Imaginez Diane en galant équipage, j Velut stella salutaris Parcourant les foréts ou battant les halliers, | : In naufragiis amaris... ‘ Cheveux et gorge au vent, s’enivrant de tapage, | | Suspendam cor tuis aris! Superbe et défiant les meilleurs cavaliers! 3 F Piscina plena virtutis, : Avez-vous vu Théroigne, amante du carnage, f Fons aeternae juventutis Excitant 4 l'assaut un peuple sans souliers, , & © Labris vocem redde mutis! La joue et ]'ceil en feu, jouant son personnage, | : 7 7 Et montant, sabre au poing, les royaux escaliers? f. Quod erat spurcum, cremasti; |

e Quod rudius, exaequasti;

Telle la Sisina! Mais la douce guerriére ! - Quod debile, confirmasti. A lame charitable autant que meurtriére; ;

Son courage, affolé de poudre et de tambours, | In fame mea taberna In nocte mea lucerna,

Devant les suppliants sait mettre bas les armes, » Recte me semper guberna. Et son coeur, ravagé par la flamme, a'toujours, Pour qui s’en montre digne, un réservoir de larmes.

228 LES FLEURS DU MAL =

Adde nunc vires viribus, Dulce balneum suavibus Unguentatum odoribus!

Meos circa lumbos mica, O castitatis lorica, Aqua tincta seraphica;

Patera gemmis corusca, Panis salsus, mollis esca,

Divinum vinum, Francisca!

61 Aune dame créole

Au pays parfumé que le soleil caresse,

J’ai connu, sous un dais d’arbres tout empourpiés Et de palmiers d’ou pleut sur les yeux la paresse, Une dame créole aux charmes ignorés.

Son teint est pale et chaud; la brune enchanteresse

A dans le cou des airs noblement maniérés;

Grande et svelte en marchant comme une chasseresse, Son sourire est tranquille et ses yeux assurés.

Si vous alliez, Madame, au vrai pays de gloire, Sur les bords de la Seine ou de la verte Loire, Belle digne d’orner les antiques manoirs,

Vous feriez, 4 l’abri des ombreuses retraites Germer mille sonnets dans le coeur des poétes,

Que vos grands yeux rendraient plus soumis que vos noirs.

F. 62' Moesta et errabunda

3 Dis-moi, ton coeur parfois s’envole-t-il, Agathe, # Loin du noir océan de ’immonde cité,

. Vets un autre océan od la splendeur éclate,

4 ‘Bleu, clair, profond, ainsi que la virginité?

: 4 Dis-moi, ton coeur parfois s’envole-t-il, Agathe?

a La mer, la vaste mer, console nos labeurs!

4 Quel démon a doté la mer, rauque chanteuse

q Qu’accompagne l’immense orgue des vents grondeurs, I De cette fonction sublime de berceuse?

= Lamer,lavaste mer, console nos labeurs!

ce Emporte-moi wagon! enléve-moi, frégate!

e Loin! loin! ici la boue est faite de nos pleurs!

| ~Est-il vrai que partois le triste coeur d’Agathe Dise: Loin des remords, des crimes, des douleurs, Emporte-moi, wagon, enléve-moi, frégate?

}, Comme vous étes loin, paradis parfumé,

3 | Ow sous un clair azur tout n'est qu’amour et joie, q Ow tout ce que l’on aime est digne d’étre aimé,,

p Oi.dans la volupté pure le coeur se noie!

Comme vous étes loin, paradisparfumél —_,

Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,.

; Les courses, les chansons, les baisers, les bouquets, & Les violons vibrant derriére les collines,

¥. Avec les brocs de vin, le soir, dans les bosquets,

4 — Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,

Linnocent paradis, plein de plaisirs furtifs, ° e Est-il déja plus loin que I’Inde et que la Chine? ‘ Peut-on le rappeler avec des cris plaintifs,

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

229

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lp AES 9 TE ig aos Fb SR OMT

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De ER

tet TS . + 423? Aus es .

as 3 ie

i

230 LES FLEURS DU MAL ~*~ Et l'animer encor d'une voix argentine, Linnocent paradis plein de plaisirs furtifs?

63 Le Revenant

Comme les anges 41’ceil fauve, Je reviendrai dans ton alcéve Et vers toi glisserai sans bruit Avec les ombres de la nuit;

Et je te donnerai, ma brune, . Des baisers froids comme la lune Et des caresses de serpent

Autour d'une fosse rampant.

Quand viendra le matin livide, Tu trouveras ma place vide, Ov jusqu’au soir il fera froid.

Comme d’autres par la tendresse, / Sur ta vie et sur ta jeunesse, Moi, je veux régner par l’effroi.

64 Sonnet d’automne

a

Ils me disent, tes yeux, clairs comme le cristal: «Pour toi, bizarre amant, quel est donc mon mérite?s

— Sois charmante et tais-toi! Mon coeur, que tout irrite,

Excepté la candeur de l'antique animal,

Ne veut pas te montrer son secret infernal, Berceuse dont la main aux longs sommeils m'invite, Ni sanoire légende avec la flamme écrite.

Je hais la passion et l’esprit me fait mall

¥, :

x +

4 Ténébreux, embusqué, bande son arc fatal.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

« Aimons-nous doucement. Amour dans sa guérite, f Jeconnais les engins de son vieil arsenal:

f. Crime, horreur et folie! — O pale marguerite! f; Comme moi n’es-tu pas un soleil automnal, . Omasi blanche, 6 masi froide Marguerite?

: 65 Tristesses de lalune

e Ce soir, la lune réve avec plus de paresse;

B: Ainsi qu’une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins, 4 Qui d'une main distraite et légére caresse

k} Avant de s’endormir le contour de ses seins,

i. Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,

q Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pamioisons, & Et proméne ses yeux sur les visions blanches

} Quimontent dans !’azur comme des floraisons.

¢, Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive, f Elle laisse filer une larme furtive, ~ Un poéte pieux, ennemi du sommeil,

Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pile, Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d’opale, Et la met dans son cceur loin des yeux du soleil.

231

peters et OE

232 LES FLEURS DU MAL « * f

66 Les Chats

Les amoureux fervents et les savants austéres Aiment également, dans leur mre saison, Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,

Quicomme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires.

Amis de la science et de la volupté,

Ils cherchent le silence et 'horreur des ténébres; LErébe les ett pris pour ses coursiers funébres, S‘ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté,

Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes, Qui semblent s'’endormir dans un r€ve sans fin;

Leurs reins f€conds sont pleins d’étincelles magiques, Et des parcelles d’or, ainsi qu'un sable fin, Etoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques.

67 Les Hiboux

Sous les ifs noirs qui les abritent

Les hiboux se tiennent rangés

Ainsi que des dieux étrangers Dardant leur ceil rouge. Ils méditent.

Sans remuer ils se tiendront Jusqu‘a l’heure mélancolique Ou, poussant le soleil oblique, Les ténébres s’établiront.

Leur attitude au sage enseigne Qu’il faut en ce monde gu’il craigne Le tumulte et le mouvement;

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

homme ivre d’une ombre qui passe Porte toujours le chatiment

D’avoir voulu changer de place.

68 LaPipe

Je suis la pipe d’un auteur;

On voit, 4contempler ma mine E D’Abyssinienne ou de Cafrine,

Que mon mafitre est un grand fumeur.

= fer

Quand il est comblé de douleur,

» Jefume comme la chaumine : Otise prépare la cuisine f Pour le retour du laboureur.

' J'enlace et je berce son ame

Dans le réseau mobile et bleu Qui monte de ma bouche en feu,

Et je roule un puissant dictame Qui charme son cceur et guérit

' Deses fatigues son esprit.

69 La Musique

La musique souvent me prend comme une mer!

| Vers ma pale étoile,

Sous un plafond de brume ou dans un vaste éther, Je mets 4 la voile;

La poitrine en avant et les poumons gonflés Comme de la toile

233

234 LES FLEURS DU MAL r

J'escalade le dos des flots amoncelés Que la nuit me voile;

Je sens vibrex en moi toutes les passions D’un vaisseau qui souftre; Le bon vent, la tempéte et ses convulsions

Sur l’immense gouffre Me bercent. D’autres fois, calme plat, grand miroir De mon désespoir!

70 Sépulture

Si par une nuit lourde et sombre Un bon chrétien, par charité, Derriére quelque vieux décombre Enterre votre corps vanté,

AVheure of les chastes étoiles Ferment leurs yeux appesantis, . Varaignée y fera ses toiles,

Et la vipére ses petits;

Vous entendrez toute Pannée Sur votre téte condamnée Les cris lamentables des loups

Et des sorciéres faméliques, Les bats des vieillards lubriques Et les complots des noirs filous.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

71 Une Gravure fantastique

Ce spectre singulier n’a pour toute toilette, Grotesquement campé sur son front de squelette, Qv’un diadéme affreux sentant le carnaval. Sans €perons, sans fouet, i] essouffle un cheval, Fant6me comme lui, rosse apocalyptique, Qui bave des naseaux comme un épileptique. Au travers de l'espace ils s‘enfoncent tous deux, -Et foulent l’infini d’un sabot hasardeux. Le cavalier proméne un sabre qui flamboie Sur les foules sans nom que sa monture broie, Et parcourt, comme un prince inspectant sa maison, Le cimetiére immense et froid, sans horizon, Ot gisent, aux lueurs d’un soleil blanc et terne, Les peuples de histoire ancienne et moderne.

72 Le Mort joyeux

Dans une terre grasse et pleine d’escargots

Je veux creuser moi-méme une fosse profonde,

Ot je puisse a loisir étaler mes vieux os

Et dormir dans l’oubli comme un requin dans londe.

Je hais les testaments et je hais les tombeaux; Plutét que d'implorer une larme du monde, Vivant, j’aimerais mieux inviter les corbeaux

A saigner tous les bouts de ma carcasse immonde.

O vers! noirs compagnons sans oreille et sans yeux, Voyez venir 4 vous un mort libre et joyeux; Philosophes viveurs, fils dela pourriture,

OS BH — . 2 SR eS Fi AA) SE _ eee a=

ee ee HELE CAO} «

me Th Tea ma

236 LES FLEURS DU MAL & A travers maruine allez donc sans remords, Et dites-moi s'il est encor quelque torture Pour ce vieux corps sans 4me et mort parmi les morts!

as

73 Le Tonneau dela haine

La Haine est le tonneau des pales Danaides;

La Vengeance éperdue aux bras rouges et forts

A beau précipiter dans ses ténébres vides

De grands seaux pleins du sang et des larmes des morts,

Le Démon fait des trous secrets 4 ces abimes, Par ott fuiraient mille ans de sueurs et d’efforts, Quand méme elle saurait ranimer ses victimes, Et pour les pressurer ressusciter leurs corps.

La Haine est un ivrogne au fond d'une taverne, Qui sent toujours la soif naitre de la liqueur Et se multiplier comme l’hydre de Lerne.

; . f — Mais les buveurs heureux connaissent leur vainqueur,

Et la Haine est vouée 4 ce sort lamentable De née pouvoir jamais s’endormir sous la table.

74 LaCloche félée

II est amer et doux, pendant les nuits d’hiver, D'écouter, prés du feu qui palpite et qui fume,

Les souvenirs lointains lentement s’élever

Au bruit des carillons qui chantent dans la brume.

Bienheureuse la cloche au gosier vigoureux Qui, malgré sa vieillesse, alerte et bien portante,

SPLEEN ETIDEAL

Jette fidélement son cri religieux, Ainsi qu’un vieux soldat qui veille sous la tente!

Moi, mon ame est félée, et lorsqu’en ses ennuis Elle veut de ses chants peupler l’air froid des nuits, IT arrive souvent que sa voix affaiblie

Semble le rale épais d’un blessé qu’on oublie Au bord d’un lac de sang, sous un grand tas de morts Et qui meurt, sans bouger, dans d’immenses efforts.

75 Spleen (I)

Pluviése, irrité contre la ville entiére, De son urne 4 grands flots verse un froid ténébreux Aux pales habitants du voisin cimetiére

~

Et la mortalité sur les faubourgs brumeux. ‘

F- Mon chatsur le carreau cherchant une litiére

Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux; Lame d’un vieux poéte erre dans la gouttiére Avec la triste voix @’un fantéme frileux.

Le bourdon se lamente, et la bOche enfumée Accompagne en fausset la pendule enrhumée ! Cependant qu’en un jeu plein de sales parfums,

Héritage fatal d'une vieille hydropique, Le beau valet de cceur et la dame de pique Causent sinistrement de leurs amours défunts.

237

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ao

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ee a

238 LES FLEURS DU MAL “

76 Spleen (IT) J’ai plus de souvenirs que si j’avais mille ans.

Un gros meuble & tiroirs encombré de bilans,

De vers, de billets doux, de procés, de romances,

Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances, Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.

C’est une pyramide, un immense caveau,

Qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune.

— Je suis un cimetiére abhorré de la lune,

Ot comme des remords se trainent de longs vers Quis’acharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers.

| Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade; t Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau, ] Et les dames d’atour, pour qui tout prince est beau, Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette | ; | Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette. | Le savant qui lui fait de lor n’a jamais pu F Deson étre extirper élément corrompu,

f Etdans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent,

1 Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent,

Je suis un vieux boudoir plein de roses fanées, II n’‘a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété P

Oi git tout un fouillis de modes surannces, On les pastels plaintifs et les pales Boucher Seuls, respirent l’odeur d’un flacon débouché.

Oii.coule au lieu de sang l’eau verte du Léthé.

~ + hh - *

fF

4 78 Spleen (IV) . Rien n’égale en longueur les boiteuses journees, :

Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années F Quand le ciel bas et lourd pése comme un couvercle

LVennui, fruit de la morne incuriosité, - Sur lesprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,

Prend les proportions de |’immortalité.

— Désormais tu n’es plus, 6 matiérevivante! Qu’un granit entouré d’une vague epouvante, Assoupi dans le fond d’un Sahara brumeux;

Un vieux sphinx ignoré du monde insoucieux, Oublié sur la carte, et dont ‘humeur farouche Ne chante qu’aux rayons du solei] qui se couche.

f Et que de horizon embrassant toute cercle

f Ulnous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;

¢ Quand laterre est changée en un cachot humide,

t Oi l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,

; S’en va battant les murs de son aile timide

; Etsecogn ant la téte 4 des plafonds pourris;

, Quand la pluic étalant ses immenses trainées 77 Spleen (III) , D’une vaste prison imite les barreaux, F Et qu’un peuple muet d’infames araignées

Je suis commele roi @’un pays pluvieux, § Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,

Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant tres vieux,

=a. ee | lo ed

Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes,

: SPLEEN ET IDEAL 239

' S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bétes. | F Rienne peut |’égayer, ni gibier, nifaucon, |

| Nison peuple mourant en face du balcon.

¢ Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade |

240 LES FLEURS DUMAL ¢«

Des cloches tout 4 coup sautent avec furie Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement, Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie Qui se mettent 4 geindre opiniatrement.

— Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique, Défilent lentement dans mon ame; l’Espoir,

Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique,

Sur mon crane incliné plante son drapeau noir.

79 Obsession

Grands bois, vous m’effrayez comme des cathédrales; Vous hurlez comme l’orgue; et dans nos coeurs maudits, Chambres d’éternel deuil ot vibrent de vieux rales, Répondent les échos de vos De profundis.

Je te hais, Océan! tes bonds et tes tumultes,

Mon esprit les retrouve en lui; ce rire amer

De homme vaincu, plein de sanglots et d’insultes, , Je l’entends dans le rire €norme de la mer

Comme tu me plairais, 6 nuit! sans ces étoiles Dont la lumiére parle un langage connu! Car je cherche le vide, et le noir, et le nu!

Mais les ténébres sont elles-mémes des toiles Oi vivent, jaillissant de mon ceil par milliers,

Des étres disparus aux regards familiers.

80 Le Godt du néant

-, Bs c

; Morne esprit, autrefois amoureux de la lutte, LEspoir, dont l’éperon attisait ton ardeur, Ne veut plus t'enfourcher! Couche-toi sans pudeur,

as > ‘a

Vieux cheval dont le pied 4 chaque obstacle butte.

ow

& ©Résigne-toi, mon coeur; dors ton sommeil de brute. & Esprit vaincu, fourbu! Pour toi, vieux maraudeur,’ f Lainour n’a plus de godt, non plus que la dispute;

f. Adieu donc, chants du cuivre et soupirs de la flate!

: Plaisirs, ne tentez plus un cceur sombre et boudeur!

4 Le Printemps adorable a perdu son odeur!

: Etle Temps m’engloutit minute par minute,

| Comme la neige immense un corps pris de roideur; ‘ — Je contemple d’en haut le globe en sa rondeur

4 Et jen’y cherche plus l’abri d’une cahute.

:

} Avalanche, veux-tu m’emporter dans ta chute?

q 81 Alchimie dela douleur

q Lun téclaire avec son ardeur,

4 Lautre en toi met son deuil, Nature! | Ce qui dit al'un: Sépulturel!

t Dit a autre: Vie et splendeur!

'

q Hermés inconnu qui m’assistes

» Et qui toujours m'intimidas,

k Tu me rends égal de Midas,

f Le plus triste des alchimistes;

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

241

ys

242 LES FLEURS DU MAL al

Par toi je change lor en fer

Etle paradis en enter;

Dans le suaire des nuages

Je découvre un cadavre cher, Et sur les célestes rivages

Je batis de grands sarcophages.

82 Horreur sympathique

De ce ciel bizarre et livide, Tourmenté comme ton destin, Quels pensers dans ton Ame vide Descendent? réponds, libertin.

— Insatiablement avide

De l’obscur et de l’incertain,

Je ne geindrai pas comme Ovide Chassé du paradis latin.

Cieux déchirés comme des gréves En vous se mire mon orgueil; Vos wastes nuages en deuil

_Sont les corbillards de mes réves, Et vos lueurs sont le reflet

De ]'Enfer ot mon coeur se plait.

SPLEEN ET IDEAL 2.43

83 L’Héautontimorouménos AJ.G.F.

Je te frapperai sans colére

Etsans haine, comme un boucher, Comme Moise le rocher

Et je ferai de ta paupiére,

‘ Pour abreuver mon Saharah

j Jaillir les eaux de la souffrance. ! Mon désir gonflé d'espérance

!’ Sur tes pleurs salés nagera

*

q Comme un vaisseau qui prend le large,

j Et dans mon coeur qu’ils soGleront

4 Tes chers sanglots retentiront Ls : ‘ Comme un tambour qui bat la charge!

f) Ne suis-je pas un faux accord i ’ ° .

, Dans la divine symphonie,

f Grace a la vorace Ironie

¥ Qui me secoue et qui me mord?

; Elle est dans ma voix, la criarde! C’est tout mon sang ce poison noir! Je suis le sinistre miroir

E Ow la mégére se regarde.

¢ Je suis la plaie et le couteau! Je suis le soufflet et la jouel

4 Je suis les membres et la roue, ; Et la victime et le bourreau!

f

244 LES FLEURS DU MAL

Je suis de mon coeur le vampire, — Un de ces grands abandonnés Aurire éterne] condamnés

Et qui ne peuvent plus sourire!

84 LIrrémédiable

L.

Une Idée, une Forme, un Etre Parti de ’azur et tombé

Dans un Styx bourbeux et plombeé Oi nul ceil du Ciel ne péneétre;

Un Ange, imprudent voyageur Qu’atenté l'amour du difforme, Au fond d’un cauchemar énorme

Se débattant comme un nageur,

Et luttant, angoisses funébres! Contre un gigantesque remous Quivachantant comme les fous

Et pirouettant dans les ténébres;

Un malheureux ensorcelé

Dans ses tatonnemenits futiles

Pour fuir d'un lieu plein de reptiles,

Cherchant la lumiére et la clé;

Un damné descendant sans lampe Au bord d'un gouffre dont l’odeur Trahit ’humide profondeur

D’éternels escaliers sans rampe,

SPLEEN ET IDEAL

» Ov veillent des monstres visqueux : . Dont les larges yeux de phosphore ; a ' Font une nuit plus noire encore

| 1 Etne rendent visibles qu’eux;

e Unnavire pris dans le pole ‘Comme en un piége de cristal,

, Cherehant par quel détroit fatal

. est tombé dans cette gedle;

-

q { _—Emblémes nets, tableau parfait

, Dune fortune irrémédiable te Qui donne 4 penser que le Diable

4 : Fait toujours bien tout ce qu i] fait!

i i Tete- -4-téte sombre et limpide FQ’ un coeur devenu son miroir! ' E, Puits de Vérité, clair et noir 4 t Ow tremble une étoile livide,

Un: phare ironique, infernal f Flambeau des graces sataniques, f Soulagement et gloire uniques, f

& — La conscience dans le Mal!

hs

4 85 L’Horloge

4 ..

f Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,

p Dont le doigt nous menace et nous dit: «Souviens-toi! Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton cceur plein d’effroi E Se planteront bientét comme dans une cible;

245

240 LES FLEURS DU MAL

Le Plaisir vaporeux fuira vers l’horizon Ainsi qu’une sylphide au fond de la coulisse; Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice

A chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison.

Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la Seconde Chuchote: Souviens-toi! — Rapide, avec sa voix D’insecte, Maintenant dit: Je suis Autrefois,

Et j'ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!

Remember! Souviens-toi! prodigue! Esto memor! (Mon gosier de métal parle toutes les langues.) Les minutes, mortel folatre, sont des gangues

Qu’il ne faut pas lacher sans en extraire l’or!

Souviens-toi que le Temps est un joueur avide Qui gagne sans tricher, 4 tout coup! c’est la loi. Le jour décroit; la nuit augmente; souviens-toi!

Le gouffre a toujours soif; la clepsydre se vide.

Tantot sonnera l’heure ow le divin Hasard, Ou l’auguste Vertu, ton €pouse encor vierge, Oi le Repentir méme (oh! la derniére auberge!),

Oi tout te dira Meurs, vieux lache! il est trop tard!»

TABLEAU X PARISIENS

86 Paysage | '

Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues, Goucher auprés,du ciel, comme les astrologues,

Et, voisin des clochers écouter en révant

Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.

Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde, Je verrai l’atelier qui chante et qui bavarde;

Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mats de la cité,

Et les grands ciels qui font réver d’éternité.

II est doux, atravers les brumes, de voir naitre Létoile dans l’azur, la lampe 4 la fenétre

Les fleuves de charbon monter au-firmament

Et la lune verser son pale enchantement.

Je verrai les printemps, les étés, les automnes;

Et quand viendra |’hiver aux neiges monotones,

Je fermerai partout portiéres et volets |

Pour batir dans la nuit mes féeriques palais.

Alors je réverai des horizons bleuatres,

Des jardins, des jets d’eau pleurant dans les albatres, Des baisers, des oiseaux chantant soir et matin,

Et tout ce que I’Idylle a de plus enfantin. L’Emeute, tempétant vainement 4 mavitre, Ne fera pas lever mon front de mon pupitre; Car je serai plongé dans cette volupté D'évoquer le Printemps avec ma volonté, De tirer un soleil de mon cceur, et de faire De mes pensers brfilants une tiéde atmosphére.

5

250 LES FLEURS DU MAL &:

87. Le Soleil

Le long du vieux faubourg, ot pendent aux masures

Les persiennes, abri des secrétes luxures,

Quand le soleil cruel frappe 4 traits redoublés

Sur la ville et les champs, sur les toits et les blés,

Je vais m'exercer seul 4 ma fantasque escrime, Flairant dans tous les coins les hasards de larime, Trébuchant sur les mots comme sur les pavés Heurtant parfois des vers depuis longtemps révés.

Ce pére nourricier, ennemi des chloroses,

Eveille dans les champs les vers comme les roses; II fait s’évaporer les soucis vers le ciel,

Et remplit les cerveaux et les ruches de miel.

C'est lui qui rajeunit les porteurs de béquilles

Et les rend gais et doux comme des jeunes filles, Et commande aux moissons de croitre et de marir Dans le coeur immortel qui toujours veut fleurir!

Quand, ainsi qu'un poéte, il descend dans les villes,

II ennoblit le sort des choses les plus viles, Ets‘introduit en roi, sans bruit et sans valets, Dans tous les hépitaux et dans tous les palais.

88 Aune mendiante rousse

Blanche fille aux cheveux roux, Dont la robe par ses trous Laisse voir la panvreté

Et la beauté,

Pour moi, poéte chétif, Ton jeune corps maladif,

f

* Plein detaches de rousseur,

7 : Asa douceur.

&. Tu portes plus galamment B Qu’une reine de roman & Ses cothurnes de velours & Tes sabots lourds. t. Au lieu d’un haillon trop court, §. Qu’un superbe habit de cour’ m:. Traine a plis bruyants et longs @e. Sur tes talons; e En place de bas troués : Que pour les yeux des roués # Sur ta jambe un poignard d'or E Reluise encor; @e. Que des nceuds mal attachés _ Dévoilent pour nos péchés . Tes deux beaux seins, radieux

‘* Comme des yeux;

; Que pour te déshabiller Tes bras se fassent prier

yy:

©. Etchassenta coups mutins

oe

os’ Les doigts lutins,

Me. Perles dela plus belle eau,

| p. Sonnets de maitre Belleau F Par tes galants mis aux fers me. Sans cesse offerts,

ge. Valetaille derimeurs

wt

& Te dédiant leurs primeurs

wa

4

TABLEAUX PARISIENS

251

14 = ee

a

ees ow

oe ma

>

w= ee eee

bond sm =+ ~_s wre

ee y =

-_ ao 2 4 FE eR RE SO

252 LES FLEURS DU MAL

Et contemplant ton soulier Sous l’escalier,

Maint page épris du hasard,

Maint seigneur et maint Ronsard

Epieraient pour le déduit Ton frais réduit!

Tu compterais dans tes lits Plus de baisers que de lis Et rangerais sous tes lois Plus d’un Valois!

— Cependant tu vas gueusant Quelque vieux débris gisant Au seuil de quelque Véfour De carrefour;

Tu vas lorgnant en dessous Des bijoux de vingt-neuf sous Dont je ne puis, oh! Pardon! Te faire don.

Va donc, sans autre ornement, Parfum, perles, diamant,

Que ta maigre nudité,

O ma beauté!

t Cestas de chapiteaux ébauchés et de fats,

TABLEAUX PARISIENS

89 Le Cygne A Victor Hugo

I. :

Andromaque, je pense a vous! Ce petit fleuve, Pauvre et triste miroir of jadis resplendit -Limmense majesté de vos douleurs de veuve, Ce Simois menteur qui par vos pleurs grandit,

A fécondé soudain ma mémoire fertile,

Comme je traversais le nouveau Carrousel.

Le vieux Paris n'est plus (la forme d’une ville Change plus vite, hélas! que le coeur d’un mortel);

f. Jene vois qu’en esprit tout ce camp de baraques,

—

: q Les herbes, les gros blocs verdis par l’eau des flaques,

Et, brillant aux carreaux, le bric-a-brac confus.

7 La s’étalait jadis une ménagerie;

; Laje vis, un matin, 4 l'heure ot sous les cieux

: Froids et clairs le Travail s’éveille, of la voirie

3 Pousse un sombre ouragan dans !’air silencieux,

Un cygne quis’était évadé de sa cage, Et, de ses pieds palmés frottant le pavé sec, Sur le so] raboteux trainait son blanc plumage.

‘. Prés d’un ruisseau sans eau Ja béte ouvrant le bec

} Baignait nerveusement ses ailes dans la poudre,

j Et disait, le coeur plein de son beau lac natal:

' «Eau, quand donc pleuvras-tu? quand tonneras-tu, foudre?» i. Je vois ce malheureux, mythe étrange et fatal,

253

St ae

a Oe ee

a4 G€Ue 4 # Ae

7 te re +)

254 LES FLEURS DU MAL £

Vers le ciel quelquefois, comme l'homme d’Ovide,

Vers le ciel ironique et cruellement bleu,

Sur son cou convulsif tendant sa téte avide

Comme s'il adressait des reproches 4 Dieu!

Il.

Paris change! mais rien dans ma mélancolie

N’a bougé! palais neufs, échafaudages, blocs,

Vieux faubourgs, tout pour moi devient allégorie,

Et mes chers souvenirs sont plus lourds que des rocs.

Aussi devant ce Louvre une image m’opprime: Je pense 4 mon grand cygne, avec ses gestes fous, Comme les exilés, ridicule et sublime

Et rongé d’un désir sans trével et puis 4 vous,

Andromaque, des bras d'un grand époux tombée, Vil bétail, sous la main du superbe Pyrrhus, Auprés d’un tombeau vide en extase courbée Veuve d’Hector, hélas! et femme d'Hélénus!

Je pense 4 la négresse, amaigrie et phtisique Piétinant dans la boue, et cherchant, l’oeil hagard, Les cocotiers absents delasuperbe Afrique. Derriére la muraille immense du brouillard;

A quiconque a perdu ce qui ne se retrouve Jamais, jamais! 4 ceux quis’abreuvent de pleurs Et tétent la Douleur comme une bonne louve!

Aux maigres orphelins séchant comme des fleurs!

Ainsi dans la forét ot mon esprit s’exile

Un vieux Souvenir sonne 4 plein souffle du cor!

Je pense aux matelots oubliés dans une ile,

Aux captifs, aux vaincus!...a bien d'autres encor!

TABLEAUX PARISIENS

4 90 Les Sept Vieillards

4 A Victor Hugo

Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de réves,

f. Ou le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant! Les mystéres partout coulent comme des séves

Dans les canaux étroits du colosse puissant.

; Un-matin, cependant que dans la triste rue F’ Les maisons, dont la brume allongeait la hauteur,

e. Simulaient les deux quais d’une riviére accrue,

Et que, décor semblable 4 l’ame de l’acteur,

q Un brouillard sale et jaune inondait tout ’espace, , Je suivais, roidissant mes nerfs comme un héros : Et discutant avec mon ame déja lasse,

4 Le faubourg secoué par les lourds tombereaux.

Tout 4 coup, un vieillard dont les guenilles jaunes Imitaient la couleur de ce ciel pluvieux,

& Et dont laspect aurait fait pleuvoir les auménes,

; Sans la méchanceté qui luisait dans ses yeux,

M’apparut. On efit dit sa prunelle trempée Dans le fiel; son regard aiguisait les frimas, ~

Et sa barbe a longs poils, roide comme une épée, Se projetait, pareille 4 celle de Judas.

(. Ilnétait pas vofité, mais cassé, son échine f Faisant avec sa jambe un parfait angle droit,

Si bien que son baton, parachevant sa mine, Lui donnait la tournure et le pas maladroit

255

& ddagger twiccte owe

recs ie oo

256 LES FLEURS DU MAL

D’un quadrupéde infirme ou d’un juif4 trois pattes. Dans la neige et la boue il allait s’empétrant, Comme s'il écrasait des morts sous ses savates, Hostile 4]'univers plutét qu’indifférent.

Son pareil le suivait: barbe, ceil, dos, baton, loques, Nul trait ne distinguait, du méme enfer venu,

Ce jumeau centenaire, et ces spectres baroques Marchaient du méme pas vers un but inconnu.

A quel complot infame étais-je donc en butte, . Ou quel méchant hasard ainsi m’humiliait? |

Car je comptai sept fois, de minute en minute, Ce sinistre vieillard qui se multipliait!

Que celui-]a qui rit de mon inquiétude,

Et qui n'est pas saisi d’un frisson fraternel, Songe bien que malgré tant de décrépitude Ces sept monstres hideux avaient l’air éternel!

4

Aurais-je, sans mourir, contemplé le huitiéme, ‘

Sosie inexorable, ironique et fatal ; Dégofitant Phénix, fils et pére de lni-méme?

— Mais je tournai le dos au cortége infernal.

Exaspéré comme un ivrogne qui voit double,

Je rentrai, je fermai ma porte, épouvanteé, Malade et morfondu, l’esprit fiévreux et trouble, Blessé par le mystére et par l’absurdité!

Vainement ma raison voulait prendre la barre;

La tempéte en jouant déroutait ses efforts,

Et mon 4me dansait, dansait, vicille gabarre

Sans mats, sur une mer monstrueuse et sans bords!

q +; Is trottent, tout pareils 4 des marionnettes;

4

TABLEAUX PARISIENS

F 91 Les Petites Vieilles

; '. AVietor Hugo

s. Dans les plis sinueux des vieilles capitales, j Ov tout, méme l’horreur, tourne aux enchantements,

p Je guette, obéissant 4 mes humeurs fatales, } Des étres singuliers, décrépits et charmants.

‘ F Ces monstres disloqués furent jadis des femmes,

h’ Eponine ou Lais! Monstres brisés, bossus. Ou tordus, aimons-les! ce sont encor des ames.

' Sous des jupons troués et sous de froids tissus

| Ils rampent, flagellés par les bises iniques,

; Frémissant au fracas roulant des omnibus, _

: Et serrant sur leur flanc, ainsi que des reliques, a Un petit sac brodé de fleurs ou de rébus;

Se trainent, comme font les animaux blessés,

fF. Ou dansent, sans vouloir danser, pauvres sonnettes ; Ouse pend un Démon sans pitié! Tout cassés

Qu'ils sont, ils ont des yeux percants comme ine vrille,

} Luisants comme ces trous ov l’eau dort dans la nuit; f Ils ont les yeux divins de la petite fille f Quis’étonne et qui rit 4 tout ce qui reluit.

; — Avez-vous observé que maints cercueils de vieilles fF Sont presque aussi petits que celui d’un enfant?

q La Mort savante met dans ces biéres pareilles

4 Un symbole d'un gott bizarre et captivant,

257

wp mk Om tafe. Sag t end

i A a A ee rey

ee eer eter oo

258 LES FLEURS DU MAL

Et lorsque j’entrevois un fantéme débile Traversant de Paris le fourmillant tableau,

Il me semble toujours que cet étre fragile

S’en va tout doucement vers un nouveau berceau;

A moins que, méditant sur la géométrie,

Je ne cherche, a l'aspect de ces membres discords, Combien de fois il faut que l’ouvrier varie

La forme de la bofte ot I’on met tous ces corps.

— Ces yeux sont des puits faits d’un million de larmes, Des creusets qu’un métal refroidi pailleta...

Ces yeux mystérieux ont d'invincibles charmes

Pour celui que laustére Infortune allaita!

II.

De Frascati défunt Vestale enamourée; Prétresse de Thalie, hélas! dont le souffleur Enterré sait le nom; célébre évaporée

Que Tivoli jadis ombragea dans sa fleur,

Toutes m’enivrent; mais parmi ces étres fréles

Il en est qui, faisant de la douleur un miel,

Ont dit au Dévouement qui leur prétait ses ailes: Hippogritfe puissant, méne-moi jusqu’au ciel!

Lune, par sa patrie au malheur exercée,

Lautre, que son époux surchargea de douleurs, Lautre, par son enfant Madone transpercée,

Toutes auraient pu faire un fleuve avec leurs pleurs!

Iii.

Ahl que j’en ai suivi de ces petites vieilles!

Une, entre autres, 4 l'heure ot le soleil tombant Ensanglante le ciel de blessures vermeilles, Pensive, s’asseyait 4 l’écart sur un banc,

TABLEAUX PARISIENS 259

Pour entendre un de ces concerts, riches de cuivre, Dont les soldats parfois inondent nos jardins,

Et qui, dans ces soirs d’or ott l'on se sent revivre, Versent quelque héroisme au coeur des citadins.

Celle-la, droite encor, fiére et sentant la régle, Humait avidement ce chant vif et guerrier;

Son ceil parfois s’ouvrait comme lceil d’un vieil aigle; Son front de marbre avait air fait pour le laurier!

IV.

Telles vous cheminez, stoiques et sans plaintes,

A travers le chaos des vivantes cités,

Meres au coeur saignant, courtisanes ou saintes, Dont autrefois les noms par tous étaient cités.

}. Vous qui fates la grace ou qui ffites la gloires,

Nul ne vous reconnafti un ivrogne incivil Vous insulte en passant d’un amour dérisoire; Sur vos talons gambade un enfant lache et vil.

Honteuses d’exister, ombres ratatinées, Peureuses, le dos bas, vous cétoyez les murs; Et nul ne vous salue, étranges destinées! Débris d’humanité pour l’éternité mors! x Mais moi, moi qui de loin tendrement vous surveille, Leeil inquiet, fixé sur vos pas incertains, Tout comme si j’étais votre pére, 6 merveillel Je gofite 4 votre insu des plaisirs clandestins:

Je vois s’€panouir vos passions novices; Sombres ou lumineux, je vis vos jours perdus; Mon cceur multiplié jouit de tous vos vices! Mon ame resplendit de toutes vos vertus!

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260 LES FLEURS DU MAL TABLEAUX PARISIENS 261

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Ruines! ma famille! 6 cerveaux congénéres! Agile et noble, avec sa jambe de statue.

Je vous fais chaque soir un solennel adieu! Moi, je buvais, crispé comme un extravagant, Ou serez-vous demain, Eves octogénaires, Dans son ceil, ciel livide ot germe l’ouragan, Sur qui pése la griffe effroyable de Dieu? - La douceur qui fascine et le plaisir qui tue.

Un éclair... puis la nuit! — Fugitive beauté ‘ 92 Les Aveugles Dont le regard m’a fait soudainementrenaitre, . Ne te verrai-je plus que dans ]’éternité? Contemple-les, mon ime; ils sont vraiment affreux! | Pareils aux mannequins; vaguement ridicules; q Ailleurs, bien loin d'ici! trop tard! jamais peut-étre! Terribles, singuliers comme les somnambules; Car j'ignore ou tu fuis, tu ne sais od je vais,

Dardant on ne sait ot leurs globes ténébreux. O toi que j’eusse aimée, 6 toi qui le savais! Leurs yeux, dot la divine étincelle est partie, Comme s’ils regardaient au loin, restent levés 94 Le Squelette laboureur Au ciel; on ne les voit jamais vers les pavés q we

/ Dans les planches d’anatomie

Pencher réveusement leur téte appesantie. Ils traversent ainsi le noir illimité, f Quitrainent sur ces quais poudreux Ce frére du silence éternel. 6 cité! Ov maint livre cadavéreux

Pendant qu’autour de nous tu chantes, ris et beugles, Dort comme une antique momie ?

f

Eprise du plaisir jusqu’a l’atrocité, Dessins auxquels la gravité

Vois! je me traine aussi! mais, plus qu’eux hébété, Et le savoir d'un vieil artiste, Je dis: Que cherchent-ils au Ciel, tous ces aveugles? Bien que le sujet en soit triste,

Ont communiqué la Beauté, : 93 Aune passante On voit, ce quirend plus completes Ces mystérieuses horreurs,

La rue assourdissante autour de moi hurlait. | Béchant comme des laboureurs, Longue, mince, en grand deuil, douleur majestueuse, f Des Ecorchés et des Squelettes. Une femme passa, d’une main fastueuse | IT.

De ce terrain que vous fouillez,

Soulevant, balancant le feston et lourlet;

Manants résignés et funébres

262 LES FLE “ URS DU MAL TABLEAUX PARISIENS ‘263

; : De tout l’effort de vos vertébres, Le savant obstiné dont le front s’alourdit,

ow ee oe — = i ae ae

Ou de vos muscles dépouillés, Et ouvrier courbé qui regagne son lit.

Cependant des démons malsains dans ]’atmosphére

Dites, quelle moisson étrange, a S’éveillent lourdement, comme des gens d’affaire,

Forgats arrachés au charnier, Et cognent en volant les volets et l’auvent.

Tirez-vous, et de quel fermier Atravers les lueurs que tourmente te vent

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Avez-vous 2 2 I ituti 7 ez-vous a remplir la granges f LaProstitution s’allume dans les rues; 3

Comme une fourmiliére elle ouvre ses issues;

| | ] j Voulez-vous (d’un destin trop dur . Partout elle se fraye un occulte chemin, i

Epouvantable et clair embléme!) Ainsi que l’ennemi qui tente un coup de main; ;

Montrer que dans la fosse méme Elle remue au sein de la cité de fange ;

* * ) . fi 2 Le sommeil promis n’est pas stir; ; ‘Comme un ver qui dérobe 4l'Homme ce qu'il mange.

On entend ¢a et 1a les cuisines siffler, Quenvers nous le Néant est traitre;

Que tout, méme la Mort, nous ment, Et que sempiternellement

F Les théatres glapir, les orchestres ronfler; Les tables d’héte, dont le jeu fait les délices,

S'emplissent de catins et d’escrocs, leurs complices,

Hélas! il nous faudra peut-étre 4q Et les voleurs, quin’ont ni tréve ni merci, - .

Vont bient6t commencer leur travail, eux aussi,

Dans quelque pays inconnu Et forcer doucement les portes et les caisses

Ecorcher la terre revéche Pour vivre quelques jours et vétir leurs maitresses.

Et pousser une lourde béche ;

Sous notre pied sanglant et nu? Recueille-toi, mon 4me, en ce grave moment,

Et ferme ton oreille 4 ce rugissement.

C'est ’heure ott les douleurs des malades s’aigrissent!

95 Le Crépuscule du soir Lasombre Nuit les prend 4 la gorge; ils finissent

Leur destinée et vont vers le gouffre commun;

Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel; Lhopital se remplit de leurs soupirs. — Plus d’un

II vient comme un complice, 4 pas de loup; le ciel Ne viendra plus chercher la soupe parfumée,

Se ferm i i i e lentement comme une grande alcéve, Au coin du feu, le soir, auprés d’une Ame aimée.

Et homme impatient se change en béte fauve.

~ Encore la plupart n’ont-ils jamais connu

O soir, aimable soir, désiré par celui La douceur du foyer et n’ont jamais vécu! Dont les bras, sans mentir, peuvent dire: Aujourd’hui Nous avons travaillé! — C'est le soir qui soulage

Les esprits que dévore une douleur sauvage,

yet |

4

264 LES FLEURS DU MAL al

96 LeJjeu

Dans des fauteuils fanés des courtisanes vieilles, Pales, le sourcil peint, ceil clin et fatal. Minanudant, et faisant de leurs maigres oreilles Tomber un cliquetis de pierre et de métal:

Autour des verts tapis des visages sans lévre,

Des lévres sans couleur, des machoires sans dent, Et des doigts convulsés d’une infernale fievre, Fouillant la poche vide ou le sein palpitant:

Sous de sales plafonds un rang de pales lustres Et d’énormes quinquets projetant leurs leurs Sur des fronts ténébreux de poétes illustres Qui viennent gaspiller leurs sanglantes sueurs;

Voila le noir tableau qu’en un réve nocturne Je vis se dérouler sous mon ceil clairvoyant. Moi-méme, dans un coin de l'antre taciturne, Je me vis accoudé, froid, muet, enviant,

Enviant de ces gens la passion tenace,

De ces vicilles putains la funebre gaicté,

Et tous gaillardement trafiquant 4 ma face, Lun de son vieil honneur, l'autre de sa beauté!

Et mon cceur s’effraya d’envier maint pauvre homme Courant avec ferveur 4 l’abime béant,

Et qui, sotil de son sang, préférerait en somme

La douleur ala mortet l'enfer au néant!

TABLEAUX PARISIENS

97 Danse macabre A Ernest Christophe

Fiére, autant qu’un vivant, de sa noble stature Avecson gros bouquet, son mouchoir et ses gants Elle ala nonchalance et la désinvolture

D'une coquette maigre aux airs extravagants.

Vit-on jamais au bal unetaille plus mince?

Sa robe exagérée, en sa royale ampleur,

S’écroule abondamment sur un pied sec que pince Un soulier pomponné, joli comme une fleur.

La ruche qui se joue au bord des clavicules, Comme un ruisseau lascif qui se frotte au rocher, Défend pudiquement des lazzi ridicules

Les funébres appas qu'elle tient A cacher.

Ses yeux profonds sont faits de vide et de ténébres, Et son crane, de fleurs artistement coiffé,

Oscille mollement sur ses fréles vertébres.

O charme d'un néant follement attifé.

Aucuns t’appelleront une caricature,

Qui ne comprennent pas, amants ivres déchair, Lélégance sans nom de I‘humaine armature.

Tu réponds, grand squelette, 4 mon goftt le plus cher!

Viens-tu troubler, avec ta puissante grimace, Laféte de la Vie? ou quelque vieux désir, Eperonnant encor ta vivante carcasse,

Te pousse-t-il, crédule, au sabbat du Plaisir?

265

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ae

266 LES FLEURS DU MAL £ Au chant des violons, aux flammes des bougies, Espéres-tu chasser ton cauchemar moqueur, Et viens-tu demander au torrent des orgies De rafraichir l’enfer allumé dans ton coeur? Inépuisable puits de sottise et de fautes! De l’antique douleur éternel alambic! A travers le treillis recourbé de tes cdtes Jé vois, errant encor, l’insatiable aspic.

Pour dire vrai, je crains que ta coquetterie

Ne trouve pas un prix digne de ses efferts

Qui, de ces cceurs mortels, entend la raillerie? Les charmes de l’horreur n’enivrent que les forts!

Le gouffre de tes yeux, plein d’horribles pensées, Exhale le vertige, et les danseurs prudents

Ne contempleront pas sans d’améres nausées

Le sourire éternel de tes trente-deux dents.

Pourtant, quin’a serré dans ses bras un squelette, Et qui ne s’est nourri des choses du tombeau? Qu’importe le parfum, l’habit ou la toilette?

Qui fait le dégonté montre qu’il se croit beau.

Bayadére sans nez, irrésistible gouge,

Dis donc ces danseurs qui fontles offusqués: «Fiers mignons, malgré l’art des poudres et du rouge Vous sentez tous la mort! O squelettes musqués,

Antinoiis flétris, dandys 4 face glabre,

Cadavres vernissés, lovelaces chenus,

Le branle iuniversel de la danse macabre

Vous entraine en des lieux qui ne sont pas connus!

TABLEAUX PARISIENS

Des quais froids de la Seine aux bords brfilants du Gange,

Le troupeau mortel saute et se pame, sans voir Dans un trou duplafond la trompette de l’Ange Sinistrement béante ainsi qu’un tromblon noir.

En tout climat, sous tout soleil, la Mort tadmire En tes contorsions, risible Humanité

Et souvent, comme toi, se parfumant de myrrhe, Méle son ironie 4 ton insanitéls

98 L’Amour du mensonge

Quand je te vois passer, 6 ma chére indolente, Au chant des instruments qui se brise au plafond Suspendant ton allure harmonieuse et lente,

s. Etpromenant!’ennui de ton regard prefond;

-_

Quand je contemple, aux feux du gaz quile colore, Ton front pale, embelli par un morbide attrait,

Ov les torches du soir allument une aurore,

Et tes yeux attirants comme ceux d’un portrait,

Je me dis: Quelle est belle! et bizarrement fraiche!

Le souvenir massif, royale et lourde tour,

La couronne, et son cceur, meurtri comme une péche, Est mfr, comme son corps, pour le savant amour.

Es-tu le fruit d’automne aux saveurs souveraines? Es-tu vase funébre attendant quelques pleurs, Parfum qui fait réver aux oasis lointaines, Oreiller caressant, ou corbeille de fleurs?

Je sais qu'il est des yeux, des plus mélancoliques, Qui ne recélent point de secrets précieux;

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268 * LES FLEURS DU MAL

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