I was schooled by French nuns at a convent school, and therefore was given a good grounding in French literature. I loved it – so much so that I took a degree in the subject as a young woman. One of my favourite writers of those revered in France is Charles Baudelaire. His poems captured such beauty in nineteenth-century France, and his stanzas echoed in my mind through my teenage years.

Baudelaire was born in Paris in 1821. He lost his father at the tender age of six, and detested his stepfather, whom his mother married soon after her husband’s death. Baudelaire’s family were determined that he would be a diplomat, but he had other ideas. He wanted to be a writer. To his family’s dismay, he became something of a dandy, dallying with an actress, Jeanne Duval, and getting into debt. Hopping between the homes of his mistresses to hide from debtors, he immersed himself in writing poetry. In 1846, Baudelaire found a kindred soul in the form of Edgar Allen Poe, and as well as writing his own original works, he spent the following seventeen years translating Poe’s works into French.

Baudelaire published just one book of poetry, entitled Les Fleurs du Mal (The Flowers of Evil) in 1857. It was not warmly received, despite praise from Victor Hugo, Sainte-Beuve, Théophile Gautier and other poets, because it explored topics in a way considered to be unsavoury. For example:

• His take on love: “There is an invincible taste for prostitution in the heart of man, from which comes his horror of solitude. He wants to be ‘two’. The man of genius wants to be ‘one’… It is this horror of solitude, the need to lose oneself in the external flesh, that man nobly calls ‘the need to love’.”
• His take on marriage: “Unable to suppress love, the Church wanted at least to disinfect it, and it created marriage.”
• His take on pleasure: “Personally, I think that the unique and supreme delight lies in the certainty of doing ‘evil’ –and men and women know from birth that all pleasure lies in evil.”

Indeed, such was the uproar caused by the book that Baudelaire, his publisher and his printer were prosecuted for creating an offense against public morals.

Today, though, Baudelaire’s genius is recognised. He is credited as being the man who coined the very term ‘modernity’ (modernité), and his works are critically admired for the rhythm of his verse, the strength of his conviction and voice, and the stark beauty with which he describes the world of his time.

The following poems is one of my favourites. I am very much a summer person – I love warmth and sunshine – and I think Baudelaire superbly captures in his poem that feeling of gloom that comes over one as the days shorten and become cooler.   

Autumn Song

i

Soon we will sink in the frigid darkness
Good-bye, brightness of our too short summers!
I already hear the fall in distress
Of the wood falling in the paved courtyard.

Winter will invade my being: anger,
Hatred, chills, horror, hard and forced labor,
And, like the sun in its iced inferno,
My heart is but a red and frozen floe.

I hear with shudders each weak limb that falls.
The scaffold will have no louder echo.
My spirit is like a tower that yields
Under the tireless and heavy ram blow.

It seems, lulled by this monotonous sound,
Somewhere a coffin is hastily nailed,
For whom? Summer yesterday, autumn now!
This mysterious noise sounds like a farewell.

ii

I love the greenish light of your long eyes,
Sweet beauty, but all is bitter today.
Nothing, not love, the boudoir or the hearth
Is dearer than the sunshine on the sea.

Still love me, tender heart! Be a mother
Even to the ingrate, to the wicked,
Lover, sister, ephemeral sweetness
Of fall’s glory or of the setting sun.

Short-lived task! The tomb awaits, merciless.
Ah! Let me, my head resting on your knees,
Savor, regretting the white hot summer,
The autumn’s last rays yellow and tender.

Translated by Thomas D. Le, 30 June 2001

Chant d’Automne

i

Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres;
Adieu, vive clarté de nos étés trop courts!
J’entends déjà tomber avec des chocs funèbres
Le bois retentissant sur le pavé des cours.

Tout l’hiver va rentrer dans mon être: colère,
Haine, frissons, horreur, labeur dur et forcé,
Et comme le soleil dans son enfer polaire,
Mon coeur ne sera plus qu’un bloc rouge et glacé.

J’écoute en frémissant chaque bûche qui tombe;
L’échafaud qu’on bâtit n’a pas d’écho plus sourd.
Mon esprit est pareil à la tour qui succombe
Sous les coups du bélier infatigable et lourd.

Il me semble, bercé sur ce choc monotone,
Qu’on cloue en grande hâte un cercueil quelque part,
Pour qui ?– C’était hier l’été; voici l’automne !
Ce bruit mystérieux sonne comme un départ.

ii

J’aime de vos longs yeux la lumière verdâtre,
Douce beauté, mais tout aujourd’hui est amer,
Et rien, ni votre amour, ni le bourdoir, ni l’âtre,
Ne me vaut le soleil rayonnant sur la mer.

Et pourtant, aimez-moi, tendre coeur ! soyez mère,
Même pour un ingrat, même pour un méchant;
Amante ou soeur, soyez la douceur éphémère
D’un glorieux automne ou d’un soleil couchant.

Courte tâche ! La tombe attend; elle est avide !
Ah ! laissez-moi, mon front posé sur vos genoux,
Goûter, en regrettant l’été blanche et torride,
De l’arrière-saison le rayon jaune et doux.