With Baudelaire in Brussels, #14
Nadar throws a party, and admits he cannot understand the poem that Baudelaire dedicated to him. A bombe glacée is served.
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.
Nadar had planned to reunite, at a large dinner, several notables from Brussels and a few of his friends from France and elsewhere. He wished to celebrate the Géant’s successful trip. He sent out thirty invitations for six o’clock in the evening, September 29th, at the Hôtel des Étrangers, 32 rue Fossé aux Loups, where he was staying with his family.
The banquet took place in a vast dining room on the ground floor. The fine weather had held. The afternoon was warm and sunny. Nadar waits for his guests outside, greeting them at the foot of the steps. He had tables and chairs set up, and offered them an aperitif upon arrival. People sit down, talk, get up, and move amongst themselves to say hello, inquire after, and congratulate one another.
Nadar remains standing. With his witty and engaging good grace, he welcomes everyone with open arms. Here come Hugo’s two sons, Charles and François; Jules Anspach, the mayor of Brussels; Henri Bérardi, director of the Indépendance Belge; Eugène Bourson, son of the editor of the Moniteur Officiel; the two Ghémar brothers, clever philosophers. And here is Captain Sterckz; the engineer Léon Rote; Alexandre Dumas fils who is passing through the Brabant capital; Jean Rousseau, a writer with Figaro; Renson, founder of the new Gazette; Gustave Frédérix, a most distinguished literary critic; Mr. Nizet-Corvilain, one of our companions in the ascent; and many others. Finally comes Baudelaire.
Nadar is deferential to him. The two have known each other and been friends for many years, but they are far from always agreeing on artistic and literary matters. Nadar is neither a poet nor a musician, and knows nothing about verse or music. He is the one who received a sonnet from Baudelaire and replied: “I do not understand any of it. Perhaps I will see more clearly once this piece has been printed.” The poem, titled Le Rêve, was included in the Les Fleurs du mal with a dedication “to F.N.” (Félix Nadar). Nadar was never able to grasp the mysterious beauty of it.
Mrs. Nadar appears, holding the hand of her son Paul. They are greeted graciously, and with respect. She will be the only woman at the party.
At half past six o’clock a waiter announces, “Mrs. and Mr. Nadar are served.” Mayor Anspach offers his arm to the hostess, and people slowly arrange themselves pell-mell along the long oval table. Nadar has neglected to specify the seating order beforehand. Nevertheless, Nadar sits at the head with Hugo’s two sons on either side. Madam Nadar is at the other end, having at her right hand Mr. Anspach and at her left Alexandre Dumas fils. Luck has not favoured me, for I am at the opposite end from where Baudelaire is sitting.
The menu is strange, but well chosen. It is Nadar who put it together, and it becomes the object of Baudelaire’s sarcastic remarks. I remember that it began with a very spicy soup – too spicy – and that it ended with a bombe glacée, called the Géant’s Bombe. It was shaped like a balloon, and bore the colours of France and Belgium. The blue was very light, the yellow very clear, and the black band of the Belgian flag was made of chocolate. This multicoloured, pear shaped bombe was a huge success. People asked for more. The head waiter had to apologize, saying that the ice cream maker had a great deal of difficulty in creating it. It was accompanied by a monstrous cake, called a Galette Nadar. The aeronaut, who was just as able a chef as Alexandre Dumas père, had provided the recipe.
At dessert, they served champagne. Mr. Anspach made a toast to Mrs. Nadar’s courage, and to the conquest of space by means “heavier than air.” Nadar replied with his usual apropos, in sentences laced with amusing allusions and dissertations. He asked that three eloquent letters he had received the day before his ascension be read to his guests – from Madame Sand, Victor Hugo, and Louis Veuillot. Hugo’s grandiloquent and apologetic epistle has remained famous. Madame Sand called Nadar “my little child” and gave him her secular blessing. In his letter, Louis Veuillot heartily reproached Nadar for his lack of religion and said to him, “In danger, look to the heavens and send your anchor upwards!”
Of these three messages, all written with feeling, I think it was Veuillot’s that went straight to the heart of the miscreant Nadar. Seated between Jean Rousseau and Léon Rote, I remained distant from Baudelaire, but he noticed me and I was never out of his sight. He made a sign to me, indicating that he approved of Veuillot’s noble words.
Little by little, the conversation became more general and noisy. The champagne had loosened everyone’s tongues. The meal still went on for some time, with coffee being served along with various liqueurs. Nadar, true to the old principals of his friend Henri Murger’s “water drinkers”, had abandoned his wine, barely sipping at the classic flute of champagne.1 He did enjoy his coffee, however, and drank numerous cups of it.
At about ten o’clock people rose from the table and headed for the courtyard to smoke and to drink beer, as is the Belgian custom. The night was delicious, with a starry sky and an exceptionally mild temperature for the time of year, especially in Belgium.
After about fifteen minutes, most of the guests take their leave. There remain only about a dozen people, whom I shall name in a moment. Madame Nadar retires in turn, and goes to find her child. At eleven o’clock Nadar, an inveterate nighttime walker, suggests making a tour of the city and the proposal is greeted with approval. Everyone puts on his coat, lights a cigar, and departs. I am the only one who does not smoke. Baudelaire marvels at this, as he did the Hôtel du Grand Miroir and at Waterloo. He wants an explanation. I tell him that I have only smoked once, and the experimental cigar made me so sick that I have never had another.
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In Murger’s Scènes de la vie de bohème, some Bohemians referred to themselves as members of the “water drinkers” club because they could not afford wine.