With Baudelaire in Brussels, #13
Some details about Victor Hugo's life in Belgium; he liked to nap in an orchard. Baudelaire coins the word “Superman” forty years before Friedrich Nietzsche.
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.
The meal over, we are a little warmed by the excellent and fragrant old Burgundy. In order to complete our Hugolian rites, we ask to visit his old room, if it is available.
“But of course gentlemen, that is easily done. Everyone goes to see it.”
They take us up to the first floor. Mr. Dehaze shows us the bed where the tireless writer slept, and his small writing table. It is upon this light and moveable table that he wrote the impassioned and tremulous pages of the great epic; depending on the temperature he would bring it closer to, or draw it away from, the large window. Mr. Dehaze kindly details his guest’s habits, and assures us that Mr. Victor Hugo used to write for as long as he had paper at hand and ink in his pot. He would usually come down when the clock struck noon. He had a very red face and a jovial disposition, and often joked and made puns.
After having taken his meal, Hugo would have a short nap in the orchard and then head off across the fields, studying the plain methodically. He preferred to remain alone, and if he had any guests he would leave them at the hotel. They hardly saw him except at seven o’clock in the evening for supper. As soon as he arrived he would sit down at the same table.
“We would serve him a very hot soup, to which he would often add grated Gruyère. This was followed by well cooked meat, a vegetable and a salad that he would season himself, claiming that we did not know how to do it properly,” says Dehaze.
Hugo would finish the evening with fruits purchased that day in Brussels, and his glass of Pommard wine. No coffee. He would return to his room, write letters, and if favourably inspired, would work very late into the night. Otherwise he would fall asleep at ten o’clock and sleep until dawn. Upon rising, he would wash himself in plenty of water and begin his day. This is how Mr. Victor Hugo lived here from the beginning of May to the end of July 1861. “He was a visionary,” adds Mr. Dehaze. “On the great battlefield, he assured us he heard the roar of the cannons, the thumping of cavalry, and that he saw Napoléon, Ney, Cambronne, Wellington, Blücher, Grouchy, the Prince of Orange, and members of the Old Guard pass by.1
Here I ask with a completely juvenile but indiscreet curiosity, “And how much did did Mr. Hugo pay monthly?”
“Fifty francs for the room, and twenty francs for board, with wine on top,” replies Mr. Dehaze, unsurprised and matter-of-factly.
With this piece of information, Mr. Dehaze opens the two panels of the single, large balcony window. The tragic plain appears before our dazzled eyes. It is calm, serene, and majestic. Innumerable birds criss-cross the bright, cloud-speckled sky. Baudelaire leans his elbows on the balcony and stands staring for several minutes, not saying a word. Mr. Dehaze disappears discreetly. Baudelaire looks back at me and touches my arm. “It is magnificent!” he murmurs.
We climb downstairs and go directly to make successive visits to the British lion, and to the farms of Haye- Sainte, Hongoumont, Belle-Alliance, Caillou, and Papelotte; silent witnesses to the historic struggle. In broad strokes, I outline the principle episodes of the bloody day for my companion, who is moved and attentive.
Little by little, the sun descends behind the heights of Rossomme. The evening twilight stretches out over the rolling plain, plunging into mourning as the horizon turns to purple. We gradually make our way back to Mont-Saint-Jean and to the Hôtel des Colonnes, where supper is ready.
Baudelaire says he would like to sit down to eat and return to Brussels as quickly as possible. Mr. Dehaze offers to drive us to Hal or Buysinghen, depending on the time of the train. We accept, and leave once the meal is finished. On the way, Baudelaire sums up his feelings, delivering a formidable panegyric for Napoléon. He agrees with Hugo’s famous comment:
“He was complete. He had in his brain the cube of human faculties.”
The subject of that dithyramb, Les Misérables, was introduced. It is rightly famous. Baudelaire, in his fleeting exultation, finds the strength to surpass its outrageousness. I even believe, on that very evening, he coined the term “Superman” for the Emperor – forty years before it was popularized by the German philosopher Nietzsche.
Wearied by the long walk and the day’s strong impressions, we return to Brussels. As we cross the Grand’Place, the belfry clock strikes twelve solemnly. It is a dignified end to our memorable day. Our excursion lasted fifteen hours. I leave Baudelaire on the doorstep of the Hôtel du Grand Miroir.
“Thank you, and until tomorrow!” he says.
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I believe that several of the early biographies of Field-Marshal Blücher remain untranslated. I sometimes think about publishing a limited edition for history buffs, and wonder if there is a market for such things…
I’ll buy the paperback when it is back in print.