Already recognized for his bold critical opinions and provocative poetry, Charles Baudelaire released his first collection of poems, Les Fleurs du mal, on June 25, 1857. Within a month, the collection and publisher were condemned and Baudelaire was brought to court. In this letter, he describes the case to one of the collection’s muses, Apollonie Sabatier. A popular courtesan, Sabatier hosted a salon that brought her close to many of the acclaimed French artists of her time, including Baudelaire, Gustave Flaubert, Gérard de Nerval, and Victor Hugo.
18 August 1857
Dear Madam,
You didn’t for a single moment believe that I could forget you, did you? From the instant the book came out I reserved a special copy for you and if its garb is unworthy of you, the fault is not of my making, but of the binder’s, whom I’d asked to provide something far finer.
Would you believe that the scoundrels (I mean the judge, the attorney, etc.) have dared condemn among other pieces two poems written for my dear idol (“Tout entière” and “A celle qui est trop gaie”)? The latter is the very poem that the venerable Sainte-Beuve declared the best in the volume.
This is the first time I’ve written you with my true handwriting. Were I not overwhelmed by business matters and letters (the trial is the day after tomorrow) I’d take advantage of this occasion to beg your forgiveness for so many childish and silly deeds. But anyway, haven’t you exacted sufficient revenge, above all through your little sister? Oh, what a little monster! My blood froze when, on meeting us one day, she burst out laughing at me and said: “Are you still in love with my sister, and do you still write her such superb letters?” I realized first that when I wanted to hide I did so very badly, and second that your charming face hid a not very charitable nature. Rascals are “in love” but poets are “idolaters” and your sister is ill-framed to understand the eternal truths, I feel.
So allow me, at the risk of amusing you, to renew those protestations that so amused that little madcap. Imagine a blend of reverie, sympathy, and respect, together with 1,000 childish deeds, full of seriousness, and you’d have a rough idea of something very sincere that I feel incapable of defining more sharply.
To forget you is beyond my capacities. It is said that there have been poets who have lived out their entire lives with their eyes fixed on a cherished image. I do indeed believe (but I’m too deeply involved) that faithfulness is a sign of genius. You’re more than an image I dream about and cherish – you are my superstition. When I do something particularly stupid, I say to myself: “Oh God, what if she found out about it?” When I do something good, I say to myself: “That’s something that brings me closer to her – in spirit!”
And the last time that I had the joy (greatly in spite of myself) of meeting you! For you’ve no idea how carefully I avoided you! I said to myself: “It’d be a strange thing if this carriage were waiting for her, perhaps I’d better take another route.” And then: “Good evening” in that beloved voice whose quality enchants me and tears me asunder. I went away, repeating for the whole length of my journey: “Good evening” – trying to mimic your voice.
I saw my judges last Thursday. I won’t say they’re not beautiful. They’re abominably ugly and their souls must resemble their faces. Flaubert had the empress on his side. I have no woman to support me. And the bizarre idea that perhaps you, through your connections and by using channels that might be complicated, could make a sensible thought penetrate their thick skulls, took hold of me a few days ago.
The hearing is for the morning after tomorrow, Thursday. The monsters’ names are:
President DUPATY
State Advocate PINARD (dangerous)
DELESVAUX
Judges DE PONTON D’AMECOURT
NACQUART
Sixth Court of Jurisdiction.
I want to put all those trivial matters to one side. Remember that someone thinks of you, that one person’s thoughts are never trivial in any way, and that he bears you a little grudge for your malicious gaiety.
I beg you most ardently to keep to yourself henceforth everything I confide to you. You are my Companion-in-ordinary, and my secret. It is this intimacy, where I have for so long replied to my own questions, that has made me bold enough to use this very familiar tone with you.
Farewell, dear lady, I kiss your hands with all my devotion.
POSTSCRIPT: All the verses between pages 84 and 105 belong to you.