le Diable; or
the Baudelaire of George Moore: "the clean-shaven face of the mock
priest, the slow cold eyes and the sharp cunning sneer of the cynical
libertine who will be tempted that he may better know the worthlessness
of temptation.
the Baudelaire of George Moore: "the clean-shaven face of the mock
priest, the slow cold eyes and the sharp cunning sneer of the cynical
libertine who will be tempted that he may better know the worthlessness
of temptation.
Baudelaire - Poems and Prose Poems
Charles
believed himself lost from the time his half-brother was stricken. He
also believed that his instability of temperament--and he studied his
"case" as would a surgeon--was the result of his parents' disparity in
years.
After his return from the East, where he did not learn English as has
been said--his mother taught him as a boy to converse in and write the
language--he came into his little inheritance, about fifteen thousand
dollars. Two years later he was so heavily in debt that his family asked
for a guardian on the ground of incompetency. He had been swindled,
being young and green. How had he squandered his money? Not exactly on
opera-glasses, like Gerard de Nerval, but on clothes, pictures,
furniture, books. The remnant was set aside to pay his debts. Charles
would be both poet and dandy. He dressed expensively but soberly, in the
English fashion; his linen dazzling, the prevailing hue of his
habiliments black. In height he was medium, his eyes brown, searching,
luminous, the eye of a nyctalops, "eyes like ravens"; nostrils
palpitating, cleft chin, mouth expressive, sensual jaw, strong and
square. His hair was black, curly, glossy, his forehead high, square and
white. In the Deroy portrait he wears a beard; he is there what Catulle
Mendes nicknamed him: "His Excellence, Monseigneur Brummel! " Later he
was the elegiac Satan, the author of L'Imitation de N. S.
le Diable; or
the Baudelaire of George Moore: "the clean-shaven face of the mock
priest, the slow cold eyes and the sharp cunning sneer of the cynical
libertine who will be tempted that he may better know the worthlessness
of temptation. " In the heyday of his blood he was perverse and
deliberate. Let us credit him with contradicting the Byronic notion that
ennui could best be cured by dissipation; in sin Baudelaire found the
saddest of all consolations. Mendes laughs at the legend of Baudelaire's
violence, of his being given to explosive phrases. Despite Gautier's
stories about the Hotel Pimodan and its club of hasheesh-eaters, M.
Mendes denies that Baudelaire was a victim of the hemp. What the
majority of mankind does not know concerning the habits of literary
workers is this prime fact: men who work hard, writing verse--and there
is no mental toil comparable to it--cannot drink, or indulge in opium,
without inevitable collapse. The old-fashioned ideas of "inspiration,"
spontaneity, easy improvisation, the sudden bolt from heaven, are
delusions still hugged by the world. To be told that Chopin filed
at his music for years, that Beethoven in his smithy forged his
thunderbolts by the sweat of his brow, that Manet toiled like a
labourer on the dock, that Baudelaire was a mechanic in his devotion
to poetic work, that Gautier was a hard-working journalist, are
disillusions for the sentimental. Minerva springing full-fledged from
Jupiter's skull to the desk of the poet is a pretty fancy; but Balsac
and Flaubert did not encourage this fancy. Work literally killed Poe, as
it killed Jules de Goncourt, Flaubert and Daudet. Maupassant went insane
because he would work and he would play the same day. Baudelaire worked
and worried. His debts haunted him his life long. His constitution was
flawed--Sainte-Beuve told him that he had worn out his nerves--from the
start, he was detraque; but that his entire life was one huge debauch is
a nightmare of the moral police in some red cotton nightcap country.
His period of mental production was not brief nor barren.
believed himself lost from the time his half-brother was stricken. He
also believed that his instability of temperament--and he studied his
"case" as would a surgeon--was the result of his parents' disparity in
years.
After his return from the East, where he did not learn English as has
been said--his mother taught him as a boy to converse in and write the
language--he came into his little inheritance, about fifteen thousand
dollars. Two years later he was so heavily in debt that his family asked
for a guardian on the ground of incompetency. He had been swindled,
being young and green. How had he squandered his money? Not exactly on
opera-glasses, like Gerard de Nerval, but on clothes, pictures,
furniture, books. The remnant was set aside to pay his debts. Charles
would be both poet and dandy. He dressed expensively but soberly, in the
English fashion; his linen dazzling, the prevailing hue of his
habiliments black. In height he was medium, his eyes brown, searching,
luminous, the eye of a nyctalops, "eyes like ravens"; nostrils
palpitating, cleft chin, mouth expressive, sensual jaw, strong and
square. His hair was black, curly, glossy, his forehead high, square and
white. In the Deroy portrait he wears a beard; he is there what Catulle
Mendes nicknamed him: "His Excellence, Monseigneur Brummel! " Later he
was the elegiac Satan, the author of L'Imitation de N. S.
le Diable; or
the Baudelaire of George Moore: "the clean-shaven face of the mock
priest, the slow cold eyes and the sharp cunning sneer of the cynical
libertine who will be tempted that he may better know the worthlessness
of temptation. " In the heyday of his blood he was perverse and
deliberate. Let us credit him with contradicting the Byronic notion that
ennui could best be cured by dissipation; in sin Baudelaire found the
saddest of all consolations. Mendes laughs at the legend of Baudelaire's
violence, of his being given to explosive phrases. Despite Gautier's
stories about the Hotel Pimodan and its club of hasheesh-eaters, M.
Mendes denies that Baudelaire was a victim of the hemp. What the
majority of mankind does not know concerning the habits of literary
workers is this prime fact: men who work hard, writing verse--and there
is no mental toil comparable to it--cannot drink, or indulge in opium,
without inevitable collapse. The old-fashioned ideas of "inspiration,"
spontaneity, easy improvisation, the sudden bolt from heaven, are
delusions still hugged by the world. To be told that Chopin filed
at his music for years, that Beethoven in his smithy forged his
thunderbolts by the sweat of his brow, that Manet toiled like a
labourer on the dock, that Baudelaire was a mechanic in his devotion
to poetic work, that Gautier was a hard-working journalist, are
disillusions for the sentimental. Minerva springing full-fledged from
Jupiter's skull to the desk of the poet is a pretty fancy; but Balsac
and Flaubert did not encourage this fancy. Work literally killed Poe, as
it killed Jules de Goncourt, Flaubert and Daudet. Maupassant went insane
because he would work and he would play the same day. Baudelaire worked
and worried. His debts haunted him his life long. His constitution was
flawed--Sainte-Beuve told him that he had worn out his nerves--from the
start, he was detraque; but that his entire life was one huge debauch is
a nightmare of the moral police in some red cotton nightcap country.
His period of mental production was not brief nor barren.
