When the romanticist is not posing as the victim of fate he poses as the victim of society. Both ways of dodging moral responsibility enter into the romantic legend of the _poète maudit_. Nobody loves a poet. His own mother according to Baudelaire utters a malediction upon him.[249] That is because the poet feels so exquisitely that he is at once odious and unintelligible to the ordinary human pachyderm. Inasmuch as the philistine is not too sensitive to act he has a great advantage over the poet in the real world and often succeeds in driving him from it and indeed from life itself. This inferiority in action is a proof of the poet’s ideality. “His gigantic wings,” as Baudelaire says, “keep him from walking.” He has, in Coleridgean phrase, fed on “honey dew and drunk the milk of paradise,”[250] and so can scarcely be expected to submit to a diet of plain prose. It is hardly necessary to say that great poets of the past have not been at war with their public in this way. The reason is that they were less taken up with the uttering of their own uniqueness; they were, without ceasing to be themselves, servants of the general sense. Chatterton became for the romanticists a favorite type of the _poète maudit_, and his suicide a symbol of the inevitable defeat of the “ideal” by the “real.” The first performance of Vigny’s Chatterton (1835) with its picture of the implacable hatred of the philistine for the artist was received by the romantic youth of Paris with something akin to delirium. As Gautier says in his well-known account of this performance one could almost hear in the night the crack of the solitary pistols. The ordinary man of letters, says Vigny in his preface to this play, is sure of success, even the great writer may get a hearing, but the poet, a being who is on a far higher level than either, can look forward only to “perpetual martyrdom and immolation.” He comes into the world to be a burden to others; his native sensibility is so intimate and profound that it “has plunged him from childhood into involuntary ecstasies, interminable reveries, infinite inventions. Imagination possesses him above all … it sweeps his faculties heavenward as irresistibly as the balloon carries up its car.” From that time forth he is more or less cut off from normal contact with his fellow-men. “His sensibility has become too keen; what only grazes other men wounds him until he bleeds.” He is thrown back more and more upon himself and becomes a sort of living volcano, “consumed by secret ardors and inexplicable languors,” and incapable of self-guidance. Such is the poet. From his first appearance he is an outlaw. Let all your tears and all your pity be for him. If he is finally forced to suicide not he but society is to blame. He is like the scorpion that cruel boys surround with live coals and that is finally forced to turn his sting upon himself. Society therefore owes it to itself to see that this exquisite being is properly pensioned and