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THE FLOWERS OF EVIL BAUDELAIRE THE FLOWERS OF EVIL Les Fleurs du Mal Edited, translated and adapted by John Tidball Translations © 2014 by John Tidball All rights reserved CONTENTS Page 7 : Foreword Page 9 : Les Fleurs du Mal — The Flowers of Evil Page 10 : Dédicace — Dedication Page 12 : Au Lecteur — To the Reader Page 17 : Spleen et Idéal — Spleen and the Ideal Page 229 : Tableaux Parisiens — Parisian Scenes Page 291 : Le Vin — Wine Page 307 : Fleurs du Mal — Flowers of Evil Page 335 : Révolte — Revolt Page 351 : La Mort — Death Page 375 : Pièces Condamnées — Banned Poems Page 400 : Épilogue — Epilogue Page 403 : Table alphabétique des poèmes Page 407 : Alphabetical index of titles and first lines Foreword Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal marked an important turning point in the history of world poetry, providing a crucial link between romanticism and modernism. The first edition appeared in 1857, but almost immediately after publication Baudelaire and his editor were prosecuted and condemned for ‘vulgar realism offending against public decency’. Six of the poems were banned by the court and the two men received heavy fines. The first edition, including the six banned pieces, contained a hundred poems. In 1861 the second edition, of which this is the translation, was published, without the banned poems but with thirty-two new ones. I have also translated the six banned poems from the first edition. The translations are followed by all of the original French texts. As an epilogue I have included Recueillement, a beautiful sonnet which is probably the best known of all Baudelaire’s poems. In 1868, after Baudelaire’s death, a third edition of Les Fleurs du Mal appeared, published by some of his friends, notably the poet Théodore de Banville. This edition is discounted by most scholars because it contains poems that do not belong to the ‘secret architecture’ of the 1861 edition. This new translation preserves the metre and rhyme scheme of each original poem. Some of the poems are very beautiful, while others are not for the faint-hearted. Taken as a whole, they convey the spleen or ennui which Baudelaire felt so keenly, a state of mind that echoes the mal du siècle of early 19th century France. [7] All of the translations in this book are new, dating from no earlier than 2014. It is hoped that they will give anglophone readers both pleasure and new insights into these remarkable verses, which represent just a small but very important part of the great wealth of 19th century French poetry. John Tidball, November, 2014 [8] LES FLEURS DU MAL THE FLOWERS OF EVIL 1861 Dédicace Au poète impeccable Au parfait magicien ès lettres françaises A mon très-cher et très-vénéré Maître et ami Théophile Gautier Avec les sentiments De la plus profonde humilité Je dédie Ces fleurs maladives C.B. Dedication To the impeccable poet To the perfect magician of French letters To my very dear and very revered Master and friend Théophile Gautier With sentiments Of the most profound humility I dedicate These sickly flowers C.B. Au Lecteur La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine, Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps, Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords, Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine. Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches; Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux, Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux, Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches. Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté, Et le riche métal de notre volonté Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste. C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent! Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas; Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas, Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent. Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin, Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange. Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes, Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons, Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes. [12] To the Reader Stupidity, error, parsimony and vice Consume our consciousness, and waste our body's force, And we are wont to feed our affable remorse Like unwashed beggars giving sustenance to lice. Our sins are obstinate, and our repentance faint And when we do confess, we want a hefty fee, And gaily we return to our debauchery, Believing by false tears to wash away our taint. Upon his evil pillow, Satan Trismegist Lulls us and casts his spell on our enchanted mind, And the rich metal of our will is thus resigned To being vaporised by this skilled alchemist. The Devil pulls the strings by which our deeds are swayed, And things that are repugnant hold us in their spell, Each day we take a further step down into Hell, Serenely passing through the putrid, stinking shade. Just as an impecunious rake will bite and kiss The old tormented breast of some senescent whore, We steal, along the way, forbidden fruits, before Squeezing their dried-up flesh in search of hidden bliss. Like maggots tightly packed and swarming in our brain, A horde of Demons feast and belch their fetid breath, And, when we breathe, an unperceived river of Death Flows silently through every artery and vein. [13] Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie, N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins, C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie. Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices, Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents, Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants, Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices, II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde! Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris, Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde; C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire, II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka. Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat, — Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère! [14] If rape, malignancy, inferno, or the blade, Have not embroidered yet, with their designs ornate, The banal canvas of our pitiable fate, It is, alas! because our soul is too afraid. For in among the jackals, panthers, apes and hounds, The scorpions, the vultures, reptiles, snakes and all The yelping, growling beasts that leap and creep and crawl Around the zoo of vice with which our life abounds, There’s one that is more hideous, more loathsome still! He does not make grand gestures or shout noisily, Yet he would gladly turn the earth into debris, And in a yawn would swallow up the world at will; He is Ennui! He dreams of racks and guillotines, Smoking his hookah pipe, his eye moist with a tear. You know him, reader, this delicate monster here, —Duplicitous reader, — my fellow man, — my twin! [15] SPLEEN ET IDÉAL SPLEEN AND THE IDEAL I. — BÉNÉDICTION Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes Le Poète apparaît en ce monde ennuyé, Sa mère épouvantée et pleine de blasphèmes Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitié: — «Ah! que n'ai-je mis bas tout un nœud de vipères, Plutôt que de nourrir cette dérision! Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémères Où mon ventre a conçu mon expiation! Puisque tu m'as choisie entre toutes les femmes Pour être le dégoût de mon triste mari, Et que je ne puis pas rejeter dans les flammes, Comme un billet d'amour, ce monstre rabougri, Je ferai rejaillir ta haine qui m'accable Sur l'instrument maudit de tes méchancetés, Et je tordrai si bien cet arbre misérable, Qu'il ne pourra pousser ses boutons empestés!» Elle ravale ainsi l'écume de sa haine, Et, ne comprenant pas les desseins éternels, Elle-même prépare au fond de la Géhenne Les bûchers consacrés aux crimes maternels. Pourtant, sous la tutelle invisible d'un Ange, L'Enfant déshérité s'enivre de soleil Et dans tout ce qu'il boit et dans tout ce qu'il mange Retrouve l'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil. [18] I. — BENEDICTION When, by decree of the supreme authority, The Poet is brought forth into this mundane sphere, His mother, in her dread, and full of blasphemy, Raises her fists to God, who takes pity on her: —«I'd sooner that a nest of vipers were my spawn, Than have to suckle this revolting pestilence; Accursed be the night of pleasure, and the dawn When I conceived within my womb this penitence. Since of all women on this earth you've chosen me To be my wretched husband's odium and shame, And since I cannot cast this dire monstrosity Like an unwelcome billet-doux into the flame, I shall inflict this hatred that has taken root Upon the instrument of your malignity, And it shall not give forth one single fetid shoot, So tightly shall I twist this miserable tree! » Thus does she swallow down the vile froth of her ire, And, being ignorant of plans that are sublime, In the depths of Gehenna starts to build the pyre On which is consummated all maternal crime. However, through an unseen Angel's ministry, The outcast Child grows strong, and thrives beneath the sun, And everything he eats and drinks appears to be With nectar and ambrosia blended into one.