Great trouble, the necessity of working, physical ills, have interfered
with my proceedings.
At last I have fifteen examples of my principal books. My very
restricted distribution list is made.
I think it is good policy to put up for the Lacordaire chair. There
are no literary men there. It was first of all my own design, and,
if I had not done so, it was not to disobey you and not to appear
too eccentric. If you think my idea good, I will write a letter to M.
Villemain before next Wednesday, in which I will briefly say that it
seems to me that the choice of a candidate must not only be directed
by the desire of success, but must also be a sympathetic homage to the
memory of the deceased. Besides, Lacordaire is a romantic priest, and I
love him. Perhaps I shall slur over the word "romantic" in the letter,
but not without consulting you.
It is imperative that this terrible rhetorician, this so grave and
unkindly man, should read my letter; this man who preaches while he
talks, with the expression and the solemnity (but not with the good
faith) of Mlle. Lenormand. I have seen this lady in the robe of a
professor, set in her chair, like a Quasimodo, and she had over M.
Villemain the advantage of a very sympathetic voice.
If, by chance, M. Villemain is dear to you, I at once take back all
that I have just said; and, for love of you, I shall do my best to find
him lovable.
However, I cannot help thinking that, as a papist, I am worth more than
him ... even though I am a very-much-suspected Catholic.
I want, in spite of my tonsure and my white hairs, to speak to you as
a little boy. My mother, who is very much bored, is continually asking
me for novelties. I have sent her your article. I know what maternal
pleasure she will draw from it. Thank you for me and for her.
Your very devoted.
_Baudelaire to Sainte-Beuve_
_Monday evening_, 3_rd February_, 1862.
My dear friend, I am trying hard to guess those hours which are your
leisure hours, and I cannot succeed. I have not written a word, in
accordance with your advice; but I am patiently continuing my visits,
in order to let it be well understood that I want, with regard to the
election in replacement of Father Lacordaire, to gather some votes from
_men of letters_. I think that Jules Sandeau will speak to you about me;
he has said to me very graciously: "You catch me too late, but I will
go and find out if there is anything to be done for you."
Twice I have seen Alfred de Vigny, who has kept me three hours each
time. He is an admirable and delightful man, but not fitted for action,
and even dissuading from action. However, he has shown me the warmest
sympathy.
You do not know that the month of January has been a month of
fretfulness and neuralgia for me.... I say this in order to explain the
interruption in my proceedings.
I have seen Lamartine, Patin, Viennet, Legouvé, de Vigny, Villemain
(horror!), Sandeau. Really, I do not remember any others. I have not
been able to find either Ponsard, or M. Saint-Marc Girardin, or de Sacy.
At last I have sent a few copies of some books to _ten_ of those whose
works I know. This week I shall see some of these gentlemen.
I have written an analysis, such as it is, of your excellent article
(without signing it; but my conduct is infamous, is it not?) in the
"Revue anecdotique" As for the article itself, I have sent it to M. de
Vigny, who did not know it, and who showed me that he wished to read it.
As for the talkers of politics, among whom I shall not be able to find
any pleasure, I shall go the round of them in a carriage. They shall
have only my card and not my face.
This evening I have read your "Pontmartin." Pardon me for saying
to you, "What lost talent!" In your prodigality there is at times
something which scandalises me. It seems to me that I, after having
said, "The most noble causes are sometimes upheld by bumpkins," I
should have considered my work finished. But you have particular
talents for suggestion and divination. Even towards the most culpable
beasts you are delightfully polished. This Monsieur Pontmartin is a
great hater of literature....
I have sent you a little parcel of sonnets. I will next send you
several packets of reveries in prose, without counting a huge work on
the "Painters of Morals" (crayon, water-colour, printing, engraving).