Baudelaire to Sainte-Beuve
1860.
DEAR FRIEND,
I am writing to you beforehand, for precaution, because I have so strong a presentiment that I shall not have the pleasure of finding you.
I wrote recently to M. Dalloz a letter couched as nearly as possible like the following:
“Render account of the ‘Paradis artificiels’! I know Messrs. So-and-so, So-and-so, etc., on the ‘Moniteur.’”
Reply of Dalloz:
“The book is worthy of Sainte-Beuve. (It is not I speaking.) Pay a visit to M. Sainte-Beuve about it.”
I should not have dared to think so. Numerous reasons, of which I guess part, perhaps estrange you from it, and perhaps also the book does not please you.
However, I have more than ever need of being upheld, and I ought to have given you an account of my perplexity.
All that has been said about this essay has not any common sense, absolutely none.
P.S.—A few days ago, but then for the pure need of seeing you, as Antæus had need of the Earth, I went to the rue Montparnasse. On the way I passed a gingerbread shop, and the fixed idea took hold of me that you must like gingerbread. Note that nothing is better in wine at dessert; and I felt that I was going to drop in on you at dinner-time.
I sincerely hope that you will not have taken the piece of gingerbread, encrusted with angelica, for an idle joke, and that you will have eaten it in all simplicity.
If you share my taste, I recommend you, when you can get it, English gingerbread, very thick, very black, so close that it has neither holes nor pores, full of ginger and aniseed. It is cut in slices as thin as roast beef, and can be spread with butter or preserve. Yours always. Love me well.... I am passing through a great crisis.