I first met Baudelaire towards the middle of the year 1849, at Pimodan House (Hotel Lauzun) where I had a quaint apartment near Fernand Boissard’s, communicating with the latter’s rooms by a secret stair concealed in the thickness of the wall, and which must have been haunted by the ghosts of the beauties whom Lauzun loved of yore. Among the dwellers in the house were the superb Maryx who, when still quite young, posed to Ary Scheffer for his “Mignon,” and, later, to Paul Delaroche for his “Fame Distributing Wreaths ;” and that other beauty, then in her fullest bloom, whom Clesinger represented in his “Woman and Serpent,” a piece of statuary in which pain bears the appearance of a paroxysm of pleasure and which is imbued with an intensity of life which no sculptor had yet attained to and which will never be surpassed.
Charles Baudelaire’s talent was as yet unsuspected, and he was quietly preparing himself for fame with a tenacity of purpose that equaled his inspiration. His name, however, was already becoming known among poets and artists with a certain thrill of expectation, and the younger generation, that was succeeding to the great generation of 1830, seemed to build great hopes upon him. In the mysterious conclave in which coming reputations manifest themselves, his was looked upon as the most promising of all.
I had often heard of him, but I was not acquainted with any of his works. I was impressed by his aspect. He wore his very black hair cut quite short, and this hair of his, with its regular points on his dazzlingly white brow, formed a sort of Saracen helmet. His brown eyes had a deep, spiritual expression, and his glance was almost oppressively penetrating. His mouth, outlined by a silky mustache, had the mobile, voluptuous, ironical sinuosity of the mouths of faces painted by Leonardo da Vinci. His nose, shapely and delicate, somewhat rounded and with palpitating nostrils, seemed to be scenting faint and distant odors; a strong dimple, like the sculptor’s final touch, marked the chin; his close-shaven cheeks, the bluish tone of which was made more velvety by rice-powder, contrasted with the ruddy hue of the cheek-bones. His neck, of feminine elegance and whiteness, showed freely out of a turned-down collar and a narrow-check tie of Madras silk. His dress consisted of a coat of shiny, lustrous stuff, snuff-colored trousers, white stockings, and patent-leather shoes; every garment scrupulously clean and neat, with a marked stamp of English simplicity, apparently intended to denote a breaking away from the artist fashion of sporting soft felt hats, velvet jackets, red jerseys, huge beards, and wild heads of hair. There was nothing new-looking or striking in his dress. Charles Baudelaire was one of those quiet dandies who have their clothes rubbed with emery paper in order to take off the Sunday and brand-new gloss so dear to Philistines and so unbearable to well-bred men. Later on, indeed, he shaved off his mustache, considering that it was a survival of picturesque chic which it was childish and bourgeois to preserve. Thus freed from all superfluous down, his face recalled that of Laurence Sterne, a resemblance increased by Baudelaire’s habit of pressing his forefinger against his temple when speaking, which is the attitude, as is well known, of the English humorist in the portrait prefixed to his works.
Such was the outward impression made upon me, at our first meeting, by the future author of “The Flowers of Evil.”
—from Charles Baudelaire by Theophile Gautier (1811–1872). Gautier was among the most esteemed writers of his generation, producing works in nearly every genre of literature. While known as a romantic, Gautier’s work was yet identified and embraced by decadents, symbolists and nearly every other major French literary movement contemporary to his work.