The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Spleen and Ideal

Le Chat

The Cat

42 lines · 25 notes

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    I

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    Through my brain there strolls about,

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    As if it were in its own apartment,

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    A fine cat, strong, gentle and charming.

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    When it mews, one barely hears it,

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    So tender and discreet is its tone;

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    But whether its voice grows calm or growls,

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    It is always rich and deep.

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    That is its charm and its secret.

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    This voice, which beads and filters

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    Into my most shadowy depths,

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    Fills me like a sonorous verse

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    And gladdens me like a love-potion.

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    It lulls to sleep the cruelest pains

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    And holds within it every ecstasy;

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    To speak the longest sentences,

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    It has no need of words.

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    No, there is no bow that bites

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    Upon my heart, that perfect instrument,

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    And makes more royally

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    Its most resonant string sing,

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    Than your voice, mysterious cat,

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    Seraphic cat, strange cat,

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    In whom all is, as in an angel,

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    As subtle as it is harmonious!

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    II

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    From its fur, fair and brown,

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    Rises a scent so sweet that, one evening,

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    I was perfumed by it, for having

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    Stroked it once, just once.

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    It is the familiar spirit of the place;

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    It judges, it presides, it inspires

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    All things within its empire;

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    Perhaps it is a fairy, is it a god?

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    When my eyes, toward this cat I love,

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    Drawn as if by a magnet,

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    Turn back obediently

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    And when I look within myself,

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    I see with astonishment

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    The fire of its pale pupils,

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    Bright beacons, living opals

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    Which contemplate me fixedly.

The particulars

The text
Les Fleurs du mal, Charles Baudelaire. Spleen and Ideal.
Translation
Public-domain French (Baudelaire, d. 1867). English translation © 2026 1732 Studios, LLC.
Words
Every word of the text, by letter.
Data
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