Théophile Gautier

I Imperia I saw a plaster hand, on view In sculptor’s studio, set apart... Aspasia’s? Cleopatra’s?... Who? This fragment’s human work of art? Like lily silvered by the dawn, Frozen in kiss of snow, its light Loveliness dazzled me, and shone In poetry of purest white. Though pallid, wan, yet striking, it Spread over velvet, graceful, slender Fingers—delicate, exquisite— Decked thick with rings of weighty splendor. Thumb high, in serpentine-like pose, Arched in a svelte and shapely line, It lay, fine set, like one of those Hands held with proud air Florentine. Did it comb out the sultan’s beard On jeweled caftan? Or, with twirls And twistings, when Don Juan appeared, Play in his lustrous, glistening curls? A courtesan’s? A queen’s? Did this Wrought hand a scepter wield? Which one? The paragon of fleshly bliss? Sovereignty’s beauteous paragon? Doubtless, by little starts and fits, It lit, poised, in its fluttering, On the she-lion croup of its Chimera-dream, caught on the wing; The Empire’s fantasies; bombastic Love of fantastic, sumptuous schemes; Voluptuous frenzies orgiastic; Impossible and futile dreams; Wild tales; poetic escapades Of hashish, Rhine-wine sorcery; Dashing Bohemian cavalcades On steeds unbridled, coursing free... Such are the things the eyes divines In that white book, by Venus written: Blank palm where she has traced the signs One reads, a-tremble, terror-smitten. II Lacenaire Close by, in contrast, lying there, Encushioned, was the severed hand— Pungent-embalmed—of Lacenaire, Assassin and scourge of the land; Curio most depraved! But, though Repulsed, I reached and touched it, still Barely cleansed of its horrors! Oh! That flesh, red-downed and deathly chill! Sallow hand, like a mummy’s wrought, All yellowed, laid-out pharaoh-wise, Spreading its faun-like fingers, taut, As if to seize its tempting prize; Exuding from their tips, an itching Lusting for living flesh and gold, About to writhe, convulsed, and twitching Before their victims, as of old. Vice clawed vile hieroglyph designs Of heinous wrongs—most foul, most fell— In all its wrinkles, all its lines, Signs that the executioner knew well! One see its scabrous deeds large writ In the palm’s bestial creases, and The boiling cauldron scalding it With every crime at sin’s command; Capri’s debauches libertine, Of fleshpot brothels orgy-rife Stained through with blot of blood and wine Like the old Caesar’s blasé life. At once both soft and savage, its Shape shows a curious elegance, A fearsome grace that counterfeits The gladiator’s graceful stance! Crime’s aristocracy! No plane, No hammer’s labors ever made Its flesh tough time and time again! Its only tool, the dagger-blade... Work’s honest calluses! For you We look in vain, no sign we see: Evil’s false poet, butcher true— A Manfred of the gutter, he!

Over there, trees are sheltering A hunchedback hut... A slum, no more... Roof askew, walls and wainscoting Falling away... Moss hides the door. Only one shutter, hanging... But Seeping over the windowsill, Like frosted breath, proof that this hut, This slum, is living, breathing still. Corkscrew of smoke... A wisp of blue Escapes the hovel, whose soul it is... Rises to God himself, and who Receives the news and makes it his.

A long time have I known you... Why, Full eighteen years, I must confess! All pink are you; pale, blear am I. Winters, mine; yours, spring’s comeliness! White cemetery lilacs sprout Over my temples; but soon, now, The grove entire will bloom about My head, to shade my withered brow. Pallid, my sun sinks low, and will Soon fade on the horizon’s face; And on the mournful, doleful hill I see my final dwelling-place. Oh! May you from your lips let fall A kiss, too long delayed, upon My own, so that beneath my pall I may rest, heart at peace, anon...

Come, fallen angel, and your pink wings close; Doff your white robe, your rays that gild the skies; You must—from heaven, where once you used to rise— Streak, like a shooting star, fall into prose. Your bird’s feet now must strike an earthly pose. It is no time to fly: walk! Lock your prize— Your harp’s fair harmonies—in resting wise, Within your heart: vain, worthless treasures those! Poor child of heaven, but vainly would you sing: To them your tongue divine means not a thing! Their ear is closed to your sweet chords! But this I beg: O blue-eyed angel, first, before You leave, find my pale love, whom I adore, And give her brow one long, last farewell kiss.

A blind man, on the thoroughfare, Startle-eyed as an owl by day, Piping a dismal little air, Taps here and there, loses his way, Tootles awry his time-old ditty Undauntedly, as by his side Lopes his dog, guides him through the city, Specter diurnal, sleepy-eyed. Days, stark, wash over him, unlit; He hears the dark world’s constant din And all that life unseen, as it Rolls, rushing, like a flood walled in! God knows what black chimeras haunt That brain opaque, what lot befalls; And what dire spells the mind is wont To scribble on those death-vault walls! Like prisoner grown half-mad, who, pent, Rots beneath Venice in her jail Eternal, and whose hours are spent Scratching a message with a nail... But when the torch, in tomb immured, Dies in the breath of death, maybe The soul, to shades’ gloom long inured, Will see with deathly clarity!