Danse Macabre
by Charles Baudelaire
To Ernest Christophe
Proud, as if alive, of her noble stature,
With her big bouquet, her handkerchief and gloves,
She has the ease, the careless miniature
Of a gaunt coquette with wild and showy moves.
Was ever seen at a ball a slimmer waist?
Her dress, in its royal, exaggerated spread,
Collapses richly down to a foot encased
In a dainty shoe, with pompoms, flower-fed.
The ruffle playing round her collarbone,
Like a wanton brook caressing rock in play,
Modestly shields, with a mockery of tone,
The funeral charms she’s anxious to keep at bay.
Her deep-set eyes are made of void and gloom,
And her skull, adorned with flowers artfully,
Wobbles gently upon her fragile spine’s loom.
O charm of nothingness so madly prettied!
Some will call you a caricature,
Who, drunk on fleshly love, cannot discern
The nameless grace of human architecture—
You answer, noble skeleton, to my fondest yearn!
Have you come, with your grimacing might,
To trouble Life’s grand feast? Or does some old desire,
Still spurring on your living bones to flight,
Drive you, credulous, to Pleasure’s witches’ fire?
At the violins’ song, the candle’s flare,
Do you hope to chase your mocking nightmare?
And come to beg the torrent of debauch
To cool the hell that burns within your heart?
Inexhaustible well of folly and fault,
Eternal alembic of ancient pain!
Through the curved lattice of your ribs I see,
Still wandering there, the insatiable asp again.
To tell the truth, I fear your coquetry
May not find praise worthy of its strain.
Who among mortal hearts can mock as you do?
The charms of horror intoxicate only the brave!
The gulf of your eyes, full of dreadful thought,
Exhales vertigo; and prudent dancers
Will not gaze, without bitter nausea,
Upon the eternal smile of your thirty-two teeth.
Yet, who has not clasped a skeleton in his arms,
And who has not fed upon things of the tomb?
What matter perfume, garment, or adornment?
Who feigns disgust believes himself immune.
Noseless bayadere, irresistible tramp,
Tell these dancers, shocked and prudish as they seem:
“Proud dandies, despite your rouge and powder’s art,
You all reek of death! O perfumed skeletons,
Withered Antinoüs, smooth-faced beaux,
Varnished corpses, aging lovelaces too,
The universal whirl of the danse macabre
Sweeps you to realms you never knew!
From the cold quays of the Seine to the burning Ganges’ shore,
Mortal herds leap and swoon, blind to the sight—
That hole in the ceiling, where the Angel’s trumpet
Gapes darkly like a blunderbuss of night.
In every climate, under every sun,
Death admires you in your contortions, Humanity!
And often, like you, perfumed with myrrh,
She mingles her irony with your insanity!”
Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867) was a French poet, essayist, and art critic whose book of poetry Les Fleurs du mal transformed modern literature. He blended classical precision with modern themes. In his work, he explored beauty, decay, and urban life. He also worked as a translator, translating the poems of Edgar Allan Poe into French.
Skull after Cézanne / Charcoal on paper by Joshua Wait
