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Updated: June 9, 2025
He uttered the snort that was his laugh, and 'Baudelaire, he said, 'was a bourgeois malgre lui. France had had only one poet: Villon; 'and two-thirds of Villon were sheer journalism. Verlaine was 'an epicier malgre lui. Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were 'passages' in Villiers de l'Isle-Adam.
"A painter has been revealed to us," said one, "but he is a man who runs along the housetops." "Yes," answered Baudelaire, "but for that one must have a sure foot, and an eye guided by an inward light."
We are dying because men are wild beasts killing one another. We are dying for bales of merchandise; we are dying for squabbles about money. Art, civilisation, and culture are equally beautiful, be they Romance, Teutonic, or Slav. We should love them all!" p. 59. "With Baudelaire, we detest the weapons of warriors.... The great epoch was the one in which we were living before the war.
Perhaps it was less his ennui than the curiosity for new sensations which caused him to accept Gautier's invitation to pass an evening with Baudelaire and one or two others, at the Hotel Pimodan, for the purpose of eating hashish.
Baudelaire has a few dainty sentences on the fancies that we are inspired with when we look through a window into other people's lives; and I think Dickens has somewhat enlarged on the same text. The subject, at least, is one that I am seldom weary of entertaining.
Baudelaire, without losing interest, then thought of Daumier as an illustrator for a new edition of Les Fleurs du Mal. It must not be supposed, however, that Meryon was ungrateful. He was deeply affected by the praise accorded him in Baudelaire's Salon of 1859.
He went to Belgium in 1856 on the invitation of the Duc d'Aremberg, and in 1858 he was sent to Charenton suffering from melancholy and delusions. He left in a year and returned to Paris and work; but, as Baudelaire wrote, a cruel demon had touched the brain of the artist. A mystic delirium set in. He ceased to etch, and evidently suffered from the persecution madness.
Furthermore, Muther believes it was no mere chance that made of Baudelaire his admirer; in both the decadent predominated which is getting the cart before the horse. Rops, too, is recalled by Guys, who depicted the gay grisette of the faubourgs as well as the nocturnal pierreuse of the fortifications.
A bull-fighter in the ring, as was Goya perhaps the legend stirred him to imitation he is a healthy athlete. His vitality, indeed, is enormous, though it does not manifest itself in so dazzling a style as Sorolla's. The demerits of literary comparisons are obvious, yet we dare to think of Sorolla and Zuloaga as we should of Théophile Gautier and Charles Baudelaire.
The writer shrugged his shoulders: "Ah! yes, I know hasheesh, opium, green tea artificial paradises. I have read Baudelaire, and I even tasted the famous drug, which made me very sick." But the doctor, without stirring from his seat, said: "No; ether, nothing but ether; and I would suggest that you literary men should use it sometimes." The three rich bachelors drew closer to the doctor.
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