274

Baudelaire: LA CLOCHE FÊLÉE

It is bitter and sweet, during the nights of winter,
Close to the fire that palpitates and fumes, to listen
For the distant recollections that rise up
At the sound of clarions singing in the mist.

Blessed is the bell with vigorous throat
Which, despite its age, alert and far-carrying,
Faithfully throws out its religious cry,
Like an old soldier watching from under a tent.

Me, my soul is cracked, and when in its ennui
It would people the cold night air with chants,
It often happens that its enfeebled voice

Seems the heavy groan of a forgotten casualty, left
At the edge of a lake of blood, under a great pile of
Bodies, who dies, immobile, in his immense efforts.

273

Baudelaire: SÉPULTURE

If on a heavy and sombre night
A good christian, by charity,
Inters your vaunted body
Behind some old debris,

At the hour when the chaste stars
Close their overburdened eyes,
The spider will make its webs
There, and the viper its young ;

You will hear all year long
Over your condemned head
The lamentable cries of wolves

And of famished witches,
The revels of lubricious old men,
The conspiracies of frauds.

272

Baudelaire: LA MUSIQUE

Music often carries me like a sea!
                Toward my pale star,
Beneath a hazy vault or in a vast ether,
                I set sail.

My chest forward and my lungs
                Swelling with the flax,
 I climb the backs of mounting waves
                Veiled by the night ;

I feel vibrating in me all the passions
               Of a suffering vessel ; the good
Wind, the tempest and its convulsions

                Cradling me over
An immense gulf. Other times a dead calm,
                Great mirror of my despair!

271

Baudelaire: LA PIPE

I am the pipe of an author ;
One can see, contemplating my
Abyssinian or Cafrine air,
That my master is a great smoker.

When he is filled with pain,
I fume like a little cottage
Where the kitchen is prepared
For the return of a labourer.

I enlace and I cradle his soul
In the mobile and blue weave
That rises from my fiery mouth,

And make a balm of dittany
Which charms his heart and heals
His spirit of its fatigues.

270

Racine : ATHALIE, Act I, Scene I  

                       JOAD.

And what time was ever as fertile in miracles?

When has God shown his power with more effect?

Will you always have such eyes that see nothing,

Ingrate people? What? The grandest miracles

Come to your ears without shaking your hearts?

Must I, Abner, remind you the course of

Famous prodigies accomplished in our days?

Of the celebrated disgrace of the tyrants of Israel,

Where God delivered upon his every threat?

The impious Achab destroyed, and the field that

He had usurped by murder drenched in his blood ;

Near to that fatal field, Jezebel immolated,

This queen trampled under horses' hooves, the dogs

Quenching their thirst with her inhuman blood,

And the members of her hideous corpse torn off ;

The crowd of lying prophets confounded as the

Flame of the heavens came down upon the altar ;

Eli, sovereign, in conference with the elements,

The heavens shut up and made brazen by him,

And the earth for three years without rain or dew ;

The dead reanimating at the voice of Elisha—

Recognise in these brilliant signs, Abner,

A God who today is such as he has always been.

He will, when it pleases him, let his glory break.

His people are always present in his memory.

269

Racine : ATHALIE, Act I, Scene I

                        JOAD.

He who calms the fury of the waves

Knows also how to arrest the plots of the wicked.

Submitting with respect to his holy will,

I fear God, dear Abner, and have no other fear.

However, I give thanks to the officious zeal

With which you open my eyes to all perils.

I see you still have the heart of an Israelite,

And that the injustice it knows of irritates you.

Heaven be blessed in this. But this secret rage,

This idle virtue—do you content yourself with it?

Is the faith that does not act a sincere faith?

For the past eight years an impious foreigner

Has usurped all the rights of the sceptre of David,

Bathed herself with impunity in the blood of our kings

—In the detestable homicide of her son's children—

And even raised her perfidious arm against God.

And you, one of the supports of this trembling State,

You, nourished in the camps of the holy king Josaphat—

Who, through his son Joram, commanded our armies,

And who alone reassured our alarmed towns—

Seeing Okosias' unforeseen death at Jehu's hand

And all the camp fleeing from his aspect:

“I fear God,” you said, “his truth touches me.”

See how God responds to you through my mouth:

“To what purpose do you adorn youself with my law?

“Do you think to honour me by sterile vows?

“What fruit will all your sacrifices bring me?

“Have I need of the blood of goats and heifers?

“The blood of your kings cries and is not heard.

“Break! Break all pact with impiety! Exterminate

“The crimes that pervade my people, and then

“Come to immolate your victims before me.”

267

Pierrot et Colombine, 1900

Colombine bares her neck and
Flares her dark blue skirt. The
Pink and white undercarriage
Shows as she balances on one
Slender ankle, her breasts and
Arms pale flashes in the murk.
Her teeth show in her magenta
Lips. Pierrot stands at her side,
A bulk of blue and grey, black
Buttons and black sailor's brim.
His eyes hold some secret, and
His hand is raised in a gesture
Of caution. His mouth a petal,
A cherry phare in darkness of
The wings. Gathering shapes
Fill the gulf behind them. She
Speaks to him : no response.
Around them, the lights dim.

261

Ecce Homo, 1850

The prisoner comes forward
To the balustrade, bound
At the wrists with rope
That trails, black filament,
To the hand of a dark
Keeper. Other forms stand
In the half light beyond.
The prisoner's head melts
In the haze, crowned
With laurel or with brier.
At his side a muscular
And naked servitor, demi-
Tyrant in a tyrant world,
Looms sinuously over the
Baying crowd of peasants
Gathered at the foot of the
Wall. Faces pale with anger
And vengeance and fear,
The white bodies of small
Children, clamour of many
Anonymous voices. All eyes
Trained on the condemned.
The servitor raises an arm
And shrugs up his ribs to
Bellow: Behold the man!