With Baudelaire in Brussels, #09
In which we are introduced to his pet bat
To mark the 160th anniversary of Georges Barral’s trip to Brussels and his five-day visit with the poet Charles Baudelaire, I am publishing my translation of the first four days from his memoir on Substack. You can find the previous instalments here.
This provocative child [Baudelaire’s chambermaid] goes by the name of Nelly. She seems to be accustomed to the poet’s habits. She steps back leisurely and hits the sofa with the napkin she has in her hand, sending up a thick cloud of dust. She is obviously reluctant to leave. As soon as she enters the hallway, we hear a high pitched cry.
“Nelly, bring us the bat,” orders Baudelaire.
The maid reappears, triumphantly carrying a cage that she leaves on top of the chest of drawers. She turns to us and says loudly, “Here is your nasty animal, Mr. Baudelaire!”
Baudelaire empties his glass, wipes his mouth, stands up, and approaches the bat that is hanging upside down in its cage.
“Well, here is living proof of something you just said was impossible – the Icarus Man, a man who can fly with the help of wings on his shoulders. You say to me that we do not have the same anatomy or bone structure of a bird. At dusk twelve days ago, this bat took a wrong turn in his aerial travels and fell to my feet in the hotel courtyard. It was stunned and I easily collected it in my handkerchief and incarcerated it in this cage that used to house Nelly’s late canary. I feed it soft bread and milk. Soon, I will release it into the Sainte-Anne chapel across the street, from whence it came. Initially it disgusted me. Then, little by little, I touched it. I caressed its oily body. I reached a point where it was a pleasure to smell the lingering, musty odour it exudes. It is a bat with very pointed little fingers. While it is asleep during the day, I amuse myself by spreading out its membrane wings, which are silky and polished. Look! But are these wings?”
Baudelaire opens the doors of the cage, carefully puts in his hand, and touches the animal. It squeaks and twitches. The cheerful maid Nelly watches this manoeuvre with her hands on her hips. “And why should man remain inferior to this lowly animal which has mastered space?” he asks.
The clock in the nearby Grand Place rings out, striking four, ringing resonantly and at intervals, then chimes thinly another four times. The silver echoes fill the courtyard.
I stand up instantly. Nadar was waiting for me to help him with his letter writing!
“Mr. Baudelaire, allow me to retire and promptly make my way to the Hôtel des Étrangers, on rue Fossé aux Loups, for I am invited to dine with Mr. Léon Rote the evening. He is one of the Belgian passengers in the Géant.”
“I grant you your liberty,” replies Baudelaire. “We will meet tomorrow morning as agreed, so that we can travel to Waterloo together. We shall take the French route, via Hal and Tourneppe. The train station is ten minutes away from here.”
Seizing my hat and cane, I warmly shake the two hands Baudelaire has offered me. I say goodbye to Nelly, who bows impishly, and hurry off to see Nadar.
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