With Baudelaire in Brussels, #10
A field trip to see where the Battle of Waterloo took place
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.
I arrive at the Hôtel du Grand Miroir at nine o’clock, exactly on time for my appointment with Baudelaire. I climb the two floors nimbly and knock on the door of my unforgettable companion.
“Enter!” replies a sonorous voice. I open the door and see Baudelaire standing before me with his hat on his head. He has been waiting for a few minutes, and is smiling and ready to go. He proffers his hand to me like a bishop.
“The weather is ideal,” he says. “We should leave right away. Let us go and pay our respects to the Lion of Waterloo together, the illustrious bronze lapdog that carries its tail between its legs. I have been in Brussels for five months, and I have yet to set foot in the countryside. This outing will do me good. While stuck inside these four walls I have re-read Hugo’s splendid tale. The prose is tremendous, colourful, even larger than life, so much so that there are passages we should read on site, at the very spot. You can compare the novelist’s sometimes excessive details with what your grandfathers told you about the monumental battle they survived. In this way we shall review the past, and conduct an historical experiment. Above all, we will breathe some invigorating country air into our lungs.”
I see that the poet intends to give me a short lesson in literary aesthetics. Knowing Baudelaire’s typically cold reserve, I am delighted by this particularly warm welcome. I feared that I would be disappointed in my trip to Mont-Saint-Jean, for Nadar had told me he doubted Baudelaire could be bothered to go that far.
“He has a horror of the of the countryside,” said Nadar. “He only likes cobbled streets. During our Sunday walks in Paris we never went further than Montrouge, Montmartre, or Pré-Saint-Gervais.”
Baudelaire picks up his gloves and his cane. He takes an ample cloak, made of light woollen cloth with a black velvet collar, and throws it over his left arm. We tear down the stairs and cross the courtyard, which is bathed in sunlight. Baudelaire hangs up his room key in the hotel office, happy as a schoolboy leaving on a day trip.
We arrive at the station just as the train is about to depart. Baudelaire hurries towards the desk and soon returns with two return tickets for Hal. He wants to show that I am to be his guest. Always the aristocrat, he has purchased first class seats. I am astonished, and try to reimburse him for my share. “I do not care for fleas, nor for the vulgar hoard,” he replies as he pockets his change without counting it.
There are two separate routes to the battlefield: the one taken by French who were banished in December of 1851, and that used by the British and their allies in 1815. The latter can be travelled by mail coach, leaving Brussels and going through the Soignes forest, Groenendaele, and La Hulpe. The French route follows the Charleroi canal. It was later abandoned when the railway through Forest and Braine-l’Alleud was built around 1875.
These two primitive routes, well worn by the opposing sides, are of equal distance and take the same amount of time to travel. The one emerges at the large village of Waterloo while the one Baudelaire and I plan to follow ends at Mont-Saint-Jean. The whistle blows and the train lurches forward. Baudelaire goes up to the window.
“Let us admire nature,” he says. “In fact, I have not walked many country fields. Around Paris, I know Robinson, Clermont, Suresnes, and Saint-Cloud, but I have seen nothing outside of Brussels. As far as local greenery goes, my eyes have only contemplated the botanical gardens, and the historical shade of Brussels’ Park – an ancient remnant of Soignes forest and the gateway to Waterloo. Admittedly, as a very young man I did travel the Atlantic and sail the Indian Ocean.”
Baudelaire falls silent and seems to drift off into memory. He peers into the monotonous countryside that unfolds before our eyes.
“All the same, what a difference compared to the attractive suburbs of Paris! Here there are no flowers, no little gardens, no vines. And to think that we are in the midst of the September wine harvest! What would the jolly curate from Meudon say? Ah! Old Rabelais, would you deign to drink from the yellow stream of musty Belgian beer? Still, despite everything, these Brabant fields do have a certain allure, a beauty, with their soft and wavy undulations. I even like the serene uniformity of the view. Do you not find that clouds leave their impression on the lands they traverse? Compare those thick, elongated, cottony specks with the parallel terrain, where the sheep look like the foam on the waves of a softly balanced sea. Ah, what superb animals! What plump cows, with such heavy udders! And the horses down there, working with such grace. Look at their enormous necks! You would think they were steeds from the Parthenon. Yes, truly, these are Phidias’ magnificent beasts. The artist has only to imitate eternal nature!”
Baudelaire is normally disdainful, taciturn, and speaks very little when he feels that he is in unworthy company, but today he is unusually talkative. His naive amazement, his steady stream of praise for the charms of the countryside, leaves me smiling and enchanted. He goes off into raptures over the Brabant farmers’ svelte figures and long legs. He compares them to the short and stocky Flemish market gardeners he sees wandering around the Grand’Place in Brussels, who hail from the same muddy fields as the pale vegetables of Flanders.
The train stops at the intermediate stations of Ruysbroeck, Loth, and Buysinghen. Having passed through this last village, the outline of a delicate bell tower appears on the brightly lit horizon. A passenger in our compartment tells us that it is the spire of the church in Rhode-Saint-Genèse, the hamlet nearest to the prominent market town of Waterloo.
“Rhodes, an ancient name!” exclaims Baudelaire. “But we do not have a statue of Apollo, so we cannot watch the triremes and sails of Greece coast between his legs. Still, there is some water, but this waterway with its flat barges brings us back to modern civilization.”1
Indeed, the railway tracks run neatly along the left side of the industrial canal that stretches between Brussels and Charleroi. The train slows, and comes to a stop. Men are hollering outside, offering carriages for Waterloo. As soon as he hears this resonant sound, my illustrious companion rises, bends down to open the door, and with a suppleness that he will soon lose, jumps onto the platform and quickly pulls me after him.
A footnote from Barral says that this was an error on Baudelaire’s part, and that Rhode means waste land.