Baudelaire: His Prose and PoetryBaudelaire, Charles
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Baudelaire: His Prose and Poetry
Baudelaire, Charles
Baudelaire, Charles, 1821-1867; French literature -- 19th century
I was travelling. The landscape in the midst of which I was seated
was of an irresistible grandeur and sublimity. Something no doubt at
that moment passed from it into my soul. My thoughts fluttered with a
lightness like that of the atmosphere; vulgar passions, such as hate
and profane love, seemed to me now as far away as the clouds that
floated in the gulfs beneath my feet; my soul seemed to me as vast
and pure as the dome of the sky that enveloped me; the remembrance of
earthly things came as faintly to my heart as the thin tinkle of the
bells of unseen herds, browsing far, far away, on the slope of another
mountain. Across the little motionless lake, black with the darkness
of its immense depth, there passed from time to time the shadow of a
cloud, like the shadow of an airy giant's cloak, flying through heaven.
And I remember that this rare and solemn sensation, caused by a vast
and perfectly silent movement, filled me with mingled joy and fear.
In a word, thanks to the enrapturing beauty about me, I felt that I
was at perfect peace with myself and with the universe; I even believe
that, in my complete forgetfulness of all earthly evil, I had come to
think the newspapers are right after all, and man was born good; when,
incorrigible matter renewing its exigencies, I sought to refresh the
fatigue and satisfy the appetite caused by so lengthy a climb. I took
from my pocket a large piece of bread, a leathern cup, and a small
bottle of a certain elixir which the chemists at that time sold to
tourists, to be mixed, on occasion, with liquid snow.
I was quietly cutting my bread when a slight noise made me look up. I
saw in front of me a little ragged urchin, dark and dishevelled, whose
hollow eyes, wild and supplicating, devoured the piece of bread. And I
heard him gasp, in a low, hoarse voice, the word: "Cake!" I could not
help laughing at the appellation with which he thought fit to honour my
nearly white bread, and I cut off a big slice and offered it to him.
Slowly he came up to me, not taking his eyes from the coveted object;
then, snatching it out of my hand, he stepped quickly back, as if he
feared that my offer was not sincere, or that I had already repented of
it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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