With Baudelaire in Brussels, #16
Baudelaire shoos away the prostitutes, and quotes Father Henri-Dominique Lacordaire.
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.
An attractive waitress soon enters with a large tray bearing flute glasses and hooded bottles of champagne. The madame herself officiates, acting the lady of the house and looking after the interests and well being of her guests. Right away, her keen business sense told her that she was dealing with some exceptional clients. She pops out the corks and serves the bubbling wine around, pouring it in such a way so as not to create too much foam. When my turn arrives, I notice that she offers me my glass with an almost maternal look.
We clink our glasses while exchanging the most ludicrous toasts. The guests take abundant gulps to please their hostess who visibly encourages them in their consumption. And it was then that three or four of us slipped away into voluptuous company. Amongst those of us who remain, a discussion begins about the exotic name of Pacheco that was given to the street and, by extension, to this hospitable house.
“What is this Pacheco?” we ask.
“It is the name of one of these more or less (or perhaps not at all) noble Spaniards,” says someone. “One of the ones who came from the depths of Catalonia or Extremadura, rushed up into the low countries, and installed themselves in the principal cities of Flanders, where they established their lines. It is for this reason that numerous families in Belgium have Spanish names today.”
“I believe that it is the noble Pacheco, whose terrible death Hugo portrayed in the Légende des Siècles, in the song of the knights errant,” says Baudelaire.
The madame intervenes timidly. “I believe rather that this Mr. Pacheco is a benefactor of the city, for he richly endowed the Saint-John hospital, which is across from us, in his will,” she says. “That is why his name is written on the front of the building, from which the street derives its name.”
“Ah! Ah!” interrupts Nadar, who always had a cocky sense of humour. “I propose two rounds of applause for this great Pacheco, generous benefactor of those who suffer and love, for I suspect it was he who founded the comfortable refuge that shelters us.”
From all sides come cries of “Long live Nadar! Long live Pacheco!”
“But no! But no! Gentlemen!” protests the madame.
Baudelaire sits silently in his corner. Bit by bit I move closer to him, seeking shelter from the groping affections of one large blonde. The poet puts an end to her initiatives with one neat and irrefutable gesture. The remaining unoccupied women withdraw as a result of our refusal. Since our other companions have also left the room, Baudelaire and I remain alone. We say nothing. He looks at me without obvious emotion, but I sense that he is troubled.
“In the everyday acts of existence, a man retains his free will, and is never forced to do as others do,” he says to me after a few moments of silence, speaking slowly. “Bad examples are common and dangerous, but not necessarily contagious when one’s soul is properly tempered. Life is long, and essentially corruptible — one must steer clear of dangers from the outset. It is a habit to form. The Reverend Father Lacordaire, one of the greatest pulpit orators, outlined the path for youth to follow. Listen to what he said in one of his most sublime conferences — the sixty first. I have always remembered this passage.”
Baudelaire turns to face me straight on. Taking a serious, sermonizing tone, he speaks in a low voice, clearly articulating each word. “Friend, child of your mother who brought you into this world in the sacred continence of marriage, brother to the sister whose virtue you defend, do not dishonour in yourself the great good that has made you a man!”
Baudelaire repeats and emphasizes this passage, “the great good that has made you a man.”
He then continues. “Be chaste, my friend. In your weak flesh, retain your soul’s honour, the religious source from which life and love flow. Shield yourself with saintly friendships, affections which the heavens and the earth may bless ... ”
His voice becomes more and more penetrating.
“In this world, between your mother and your sister, between your ancestors and your heirs, there is a weak and kind creature that God has destined for you. Hidden from your sight, she already lives for you, for you whom she does not know. For you, she suppresses her desires and reproaches herself for the slightest thing that might displease you.”
Baudelaire now stands, and adopts the stance of a preacher. His speech becomes more and more heightened.
“Keep your heart for her, as she keeps hers for you. Do not bring ruins in exchange for her youth. She is making sacrifices for the sake of your unique love, so do the same for her. Make a just and bloody sacrifice to this same love by conquering your own passions.”
For several minutes the madame has been watching us from the doorway. She left the room with the others, but had quietly returned. She heard Baudelaire, and cried out.
“Oh, how true, Mr. Baudelaire!”, she said, speaking the name of her guest, which she had just heard for the first time when Nadar called to him. Drawing closer, like one who is giving away a secret, she adds in a low voice, “I too have a fifteen year old boy. I am having him brought up at a provincial college in order to make an honest man of him. He will never know the source of the money that pays for his schooling and prepares him for a dignified future. I hope that he will become a priest, for the safety and redemption of his mother’s soul ... ”
But this scene is suddenly interrupted by a merry clamour. The door to the staircase swings open again, and our companions re-enter the room. They laugh and joke as they put their clothes back in order. The half-full bottles of champagne seem to have waited, resigned, for these thirsty drinkers to make their return from Cythera. They do not have to be asked twice. They seize their glasses and sing in unison, “Let us drink! Let us drink! Wine and women, they are the only good on earth!”
Baudelaire seizes me by the arm and drags me off. To protect himself from the chill of the night, he puts on his long black cloak again. His is wearing his broad brimmed hat, and his long locks of grey hair spill over his collar. In the darkened street, it seems to me that he looks like a village schoolmaster. Without a word, we walk briskly back to our rooms. I return and undress, troubled, and convinced that I have escaped from grave danger.
I am slow to fall asleep that evening, retaining the very clear impression that Baudelaire has just saved me from ever making seedy compromises or ignominious liaisons.
This concludes the fourth day of Barral’s visit with Baudelaire, and this series of free posts. If you would like to read about the fifth day, you can buy a copy of the book (paper or electronic) at www.oboluspress.com .
Who knew that Baudelaire would give such good advice! An excellent post, thank you.