Translated by Norman Cannon

The morbid, neurotic, but consummately gifted Charles Baudelaire became a member of the famous Club des Hachichins in 1844, eventually taking lodgings (as Théophile Gautier had) in the attic of the Hotel Pimodan on the Left Bank, where the club convened. In 1858 he wrote a long article on his hashish experiences, which first appeared in the Revue Contemporaine under the title "De l'Idéal artificiel" (On the Artificial Ideal). The poet republished this monograph two years later in his masterpiece Les Paradis Artificiels (Artificial Paradises) and called it "Le Poème du hachich." It is from this work that "The Seraphic Theatre" has been excerpted. Aside from the sheer beauty of the prose, impressive even in translation, the value of the following essay lies in its superbly sensitive evocation of the psychological reactions of the hashish eater.

In a later segment of "Le Poème du hachich" Baudelaire deplored what he considered hemp's undermining effect on man's moral structure. Scholars have pointed out that the "Poème" was written over a decade after the experiences described actually occurred, and that Baudelaire's remarks concerning the spiritually detrimental effects of hashish were probably rooted in his depression-inducing, long-standing opiate and alcohol addictions, misfortunes which pre-dated his experiments with hashish and undoubtedly colored them.

"What does one experience? What does one see? Wonderful things, eh? Amazing sights? It is very beautiful? Very terrible? Very dangerous?"

Such are the questions put, with a mixture of curiosity and fear, by the ignorant to the initiated. The questioners seem to have a childish impatience for knowledge, such as might be felt by somebody who has never left his fireside, on meeting a man returning from distant and unknown lands. They think of the intoxication caused by hashish as a land of miracles, a huge conjuror's theatre where everything is marvellous and unexpected.

This is an ill-informed notion, a complete misunderstanding. Since, for the common run of readers and questioners, the word hashish conveys an idea of strange, topsy-turvy worlds, an expectation of miraculous dreams (a more accurate word would be hallucinations—which, in any case, are less frequent than is generally supposed), I shall at once point out an important difference between the effects of hashish and the phenomena of sleep.

In sleep, that nightly journey of adventure, there positively is something miraculous, although the miracle's mystery has been staled by its punctual regularity. Men's dreams are of two kinds. Those of the first kind are full of his ordinary life, his preoccupations, desires, and faults, mingled in a more or less bizarre fashion with things seen during the day that have indiscriminately attached themselves to the huge canvas of his memory. This is the natural dream—the man himself.
But the other kind of dream—the absurd, unpredictable dream, with no relation to or connection with the character, life, or passions of the dreamer. This, which I shall call the "hieroglyphic" dream, obviously represents the supernatural side of life; and it is just because of its absurdity that the ancients regarded it as divine. Since it cannot be explained as a product of natural causes, they attributed it to a cause external to mankind; and even today, and apart from the oneiromancers, there is a school of philosophy that sees in dreams of this sort sometimes a reproach and sometimes a counsel; a symbolic moral picture, that is to say, engendered actually in the mind of the sleeping person. It is a dictionary that requires study for its comprehension, a language to which wise men can obtain the key.

The intoxication of hashish is utterly different. It will not bring us beyond the bounds of the natural dream. It is true that throughout its whole period the intoxication will be in the nature of a vast dream—by reason of the intensity of its colors and its rapid flow of mental images; but it will always retain the private tonality of the individual. The man wanted the dream, now the dream will govern the man; but this dream will certainly be the son of its father. The sluggard has contrived artificially to introduce the supernatural into his life and thoughts; but he remains, despite the adventitious force of his sensations, merely the same man increased, the same number raised to a very high power. He is subjugated—but, unfortunately for him, only by himself; in other words, by that part of himself that was already previously dominant.
He wished to ape the angel, he has become an animal; and for a brief while the latter is very powerful—if power is the correct word for an excessive sensibility—because it is subject to no restraining or directing government.

It is right, then, that sophisticated persons, and also ignorant persons who are eager to make acquaintance with unusual delights, should be clearly told that they will find in hashish nothing miraculous, absolutely nothing but an exaggeration of the natural. The brain and organism on which hashish operates will produce only the normal phenomena peculiar to that individual—increased, admittedly, in number and force, but always faithful to their origin. A man will never escape from his destined physical and moral temperament: hashish will be a mirror of his impressions and private thoughts—a magnifying mirror, it is true, but only a mirror.

Have a look at the drug itself: a green sweetmeat, the size of a nut and singularly odorous—so much so that it provokes a certain disgust and velleities of nausea; as, indeed, any odor would do, however pure or even agreeable in itself, if enhanced to its maximum of strength and, so to speak, density. (I may be allowed to remark, in passing, that this last statement has a corollary, that even the most disgusting and revolting scent might perhaps become a pleasure if it were reduced to its minimum of quantity and effluvium.)

Here, then, is happiness! It is large enough to fill a small spoon. Happiness, with all its intoxications, follies and puerii-ties. You can swallow it without fear—one does not die of it. Your physical organs will be in no way affected. Later on, perhaps, a too frequent consultation of the oracle will diminish your strength of will; perhaps you will be less of a man than you are today. But the retribution is so distant, and the disaster in store for you so difficult to define! What are you risking? A touch of nervous exhaustion tomorrow? Do you not daily risk worse retribution for lesser rewards?

Well, now, your mind is made up. You have even—in order to make the dose stronger and more diffusely effective—melted your rich extract in a cup of black coffee; you have seen to it that your stomach is empty, by postponing your main meal until nine or ten o'clock that evening, in order to give the poison full freedom of action; perhaps in an hour's time you will take, at the most, some thin soup. You now have enough ballast for a long and singular voyage. The steam-whistle has blown, the sails are set, and you have a curious advantage over ordinary travellers—that of not knowing whither you are going. You have made your choice: hurrah for destiny!

I assume that you have chosen your moment for this adventurous expedition. Every perfect debauch calls for perfect leisure. I have told you, moreover, that hashish produces an exaggeration not only of the individual, but also of his circumstances and surroundings. You must, therefore, have no social obligations demanding punctuality or exactitude; no domestic worries; no distressing affair of the heart. This is most important: for any grief or spiritual unrest, any memory of an obligation claiming your attention at a fixed time, would toll like a bell amidst your intoxication and poison your pleasure. The unrest would become an agony, the worry a torture.

If all these indispensible conditions have been observed, so that the moment is propitious; if your surroundings are favorable—a picturesque landscape, for example, or a poetically decorated apartment; and if, in addition, you can look forward to hearing a little music: why, then, all is for the best.

Intoxication with hashish generally falls into three successive phases, quite easy to distinguish. For beginners even the first symptoms of the first phase will be interesting enough. You have heard vague reports of the drug's marvellous effects. Your imagination has preconceived some private notion of them, something in the nature of an ideal form of drunkenness. You are impatient to learn if the reality will match your expectations. This is sufficient to throw you, from the beginning, into astate of anxiety, which to no small extent encourages the infiltration of the victorious and invading poison.

Most novices, of only the first degree of initiation, complain that hashish is slow in taking effect. They wait with childish impatience for it to do so; and then, when the drug does not function quickly enough to suit them, they indulge in a swaggering incredulity, which gives great delight to old initiates, who know just how hashish sets about its work.

The earliest encroachments of the drug, like symptoms of a storm that hovers before it strikes, appear and multiply in the very bosom of this incredulity. The first of them is a sort of irrelevant and irresistible hilarity. Attacks of causeless mirth, of which you are almost ashamed, repeat themselves at frequent intervals, cutting across periods of stupor during which you try in vain to pull yourself together. The simplest words, the most trivial ideas, assume a new and strange guise; you are actually astonished at having hitherto found them so simple. Incongruous and unforeseeable resemblances and comparisons, interminable bouts of punning on words, rough sketches for farces, continually spout from your brain. The demon has you in thrall. It is useless to struggle against this hilarity, which is as painful as a tickle. From time to time you laugh at yourself, at your own silliness and folly; and your companions, if you have such, laugh alike at your condition and at their own. But, since they laugh at you without malice, you laugh back at them without rancor.

This mirth, with its alternating spells of languor and convulsion, this distress in the midst of delight, generally lasts only for a fairly short time. Soon the coherence of your ideas becomes so vague, the conducting filament between your fancies becomes so thin, that only your accomplices can understand you.

And once again, on this question, too, there is no means of ascertaining the truth: perhaps they only think they understand you, and the deception is mutual. This crazy whimsicality, these explosive bursts of laughter, seem like real madness, or at least like a maniac's folly, to anyone who is not in the same state as yourself. Conversely, the self-control, good sense and orderly thoughts of a prudent observer who has abstained from intoxication—these delight and amuse you like a special sort of dementia. Your roles are inverted: his calmness drives you to extremes of ironic disdain.

How mysteriously comical are the feelings of a man who revels in incomprehensible mirth at the expense of anyone not in the same situation as himself! The madman begins to feel sorry for the sane man; and, from this moment on, the notion of his own superiority begins to gleam on the horizon of his intellect. Soon it will grow, swell and burst upon him like a meteor.

I once witnessed a scene of this sort, which was carried to great lengths. Its grotesque absurdity was intelligible only to such of those present as understood, at least from observing others, the effects of the drug and the enormous difference in pitch that it creates between two supposedly equal intellects.

A famous musician, who knew nothing of the properties of hashish, and perhaps had never even heard of the drug, found himself among a company of whom several persons had been taking it. They tried to make him understand its marvellous effects. He smiled graciously at their fabulous accounts, out of sheer politeness, in the manner of a man willing to make himself agreeable for a few minutes. His disdain was quickly felt by the others, whose perceptions had been sharpened by the poison, and their laughter wounded him. Finally their hilarious outbursts, the puns and strangely altered faces, the whole unhealthy atmosphere irritated him to the point of saying—perhaps more hastily than he might have wished: "This is an evil burden for an artist to take upon himself; moreover, it must be very very fatiguing."

To the others, the comicality of this remark seemed dazzling. Their joyful merriment was redoubled.

"This burden may suit you," said the musician, "but it would not suit me."

"All that matters is whether it suits us," one of the sick company said egotistically.

Not knowing whether he had to do with real madmen, or with people who were shamming madness, the musician thought it best to leave. But somebody locked the door and hid the key. Another person, going on his knees before the musician, begged his pardon, in the name of the company, and informed him, lachrymosely but insolently, that despite his (the musician's) spiritual inferiority, which perhaps excited a little pity, all present were filled with the deepest affection toward him.

The musician resigned himself to remaining, and, at the company's urgent request, was even so good as to play some
„ music. But the sound of the violin, spreading through the room like a new contagion, laid hands (the expression is not too strong) first on one of the sick men and then on another. There were deep, hoarse sighs, sudden sobs, floods of silent tears. The musician grew alarmed, and stopped playing. Going up to the man whose blissful state was causing the greatest hubbub, he asked him whether he was in great pain, and what he (the musician) could do to help him. One of those present, a "practical man," suggested lemonade and stomach-powders. But the sufferer, his eyes shining with ecstasy, looked at them both with unutterable scorn. To think of wishing to "cure" a man sick with super-abundance of life, a man sick with joy!

As this anecdote shows, one of the most noticeable sensations resulting from the use of hashish is that of benevolence; a flaccid, idle, dumb benevolence, resulting from a softening of the nerves.

In confirmation of this, somebody once told me of an adventure that had befallen him whilst at this stage of intoxication. Since he had retained a very exact memory of his sensations, I could perfectly understand the grotesque embarrassment in which he had been inextricably involved as a result of that difference in pitch and level of which I was speaking.

I cannot remember whether my informant was having his first or second experience of the drug. Did he take rather too strong a dose, or did the hashish produce, without any apparent cause—this often happens—much more vigorous effects than usual? He told me that, in the midst of his delight (that supreme delight of feeling oneself filled with life, and believing oneself filled with genius), he was all at once seized with terror. After having at first been dazzled by the beauty of his sensations, he was suddenly appalled by them. He asked himself what would become of his intellect and physical faculties if this condition, which seemed to him supernatural, were to grow more and more aggravated; if his nerves were to become continually more and more delicate?

Because of the power of enlargement possessed by the inward eye of the victim, such a fear as this can be unspeakable torture. My informant said as follows:

I was like a runaway horse galloping toward a precipice, trying to halt but unable to do so. It was truly a fearsome gallop; and my thoughts, enslaved by circumstances, situation, accident—by everything implied in the word "hazard"—had taken a purely rhapsodic turn. "It is too late!" I kept desperately repeating.

When this mode of sensation ceased—after what appeared to me an infinity of time, lasting, perhaps only a few minutes—and I was expecting to be able at last to sink into that state of beatitude, so dear to Orientals, which follows on the phase of furor, I was overwhelmed by a new "unhappiness." I was stricken with a new disquiet—this time quite trivial and childish. I suddenly remembered that I had been invited to a formal dinner with a party of respectable people. I foresaw myself in the midst of a discreet, well-behaved crowd, where everybody else would be in full control of his faculties, whilst 1 myself would be obliged carefully to conceal my mental condition—and under brilliant lamplight! I was fairly confident of being able to do this, but almost swooned at the thought of the efforts of will I should have to exert.

By I know not what accident, the words of the Gospel "Woe to him who giveth scandal!" arose in my memory. I tried hard to forget them, but kept ceaselessly repeating them in my mind. My unhappiness (for it was a real unhappiness) assumed grandiose proportions. I resolved, despite my weakness, to pull myself together and consult an apothecary; for I knew nothing of reagents, and proposed to present myself, free and without a care, in the society to which duty called me.

But at the door of the shop a sudden thought struck me, causing me to stop and consider for a few moments. I had just seen my reflection in a shop window, and the sight of my own face amazed me. My pallor, my receding lips, my bulging eyes! "I shall upset the worthy apothecary," I told myself, "and for what a silly reason!"

Another feeling I had was a fear of meeting people in the shop and appearing ridiculous. But all other feelings were dominated by a sense of benevolence toward the unknown apothecary. I thought of him as a man having the same exaggerated sensibilities as I myself had at that terrible moment. I supposed, therefore, that his ear-drums and soul must quiver, as mine did, at thé least noise, and I decided to enter his shop on tiptoe. "I cannot be too careful," I said to myself, "in dealing with a man who, in his goodness of heart, will be alarmed at my plight."

I also assured myself that I would muffle not only the sound of my steps, but also the sound of my voice.

The result was the contrary of what I had hoped. In my resolve to reassure the apothecary, I succeeded in scaring him. He knew nothing of my "illness"; he had never even heard of it. Nevertheless, he looked at me with a curiosity strongly mixed with disgust. Was he taking me for a madman, or for • a beggar? Neither the one nor the other, no doubt; but these were the crazy notions that passed through my brain. I felt obliged to explain to him, at great length (and with what weariness!) all about conserve of hemp and the use to which it was put. I continually repeated to him that there was no reason for him to be alarmed, and that all I wanted was some palliative or antitoxin. I kept insisting on the sincere regret I felt at my vexatious intrusion.

Finally—and imagine all the humiliation to which the words subjected mel—the man simply asked me "please to leave the shop." This was the reward of my exaggerated charity and benevolence!

I went to my dinner party, and created no scandal. Nobody guessed at the superhuman efforts I had to make to be like everyone else. But I shall never forget the tortures of an ultra-poetical intoxication hampered by the need for decorum and thwarted by a sense of duty!

Although naturally inclined to sympathize with all sufferings that arise from imagination, I could not help laughing at this narrative. The man from whom I had it is not cured. He has continued to demand from the accursed sweetmeat the stimulus that one should find in oneself; but because he is a careful and orderly person, "a man of the world," he has reduced the doses, thus enabling himself to increase their frequency. He will make acquaintance later with the rotten fruits of his dietetic system.

Let me now revert to the normal development of the intoxication. After the first phase of childish mirth comes a sort of momentary lull. But soon new adventures are heralded by a sensation of chilliness in the extremities (for some people this becomes an intense cold), and a great weakness in all the members. In your head, and throughout your being, you feel an embarrassing stupor and stupefaction. Your eyes bulge, as if under the pull, both physical and spiritual, of an implacable ecstasy. Your face is flooded with pallor. Your lips shrink and are sucked back into your mouth by that panting movement that characterizes the ambition of a man who is a prey to great projects, overwhelmed by vast thoughts, or gaining breath for some violent effort. The sides of the gullet cleave together; so to speak. The palate is parched with a thirst that it would be infinitely pleasant to satisfy, if only the delights of idleness were not still more agreeable, and did they not forbid the slightest disarrangement of the body's posture. Hoarse, deep sighs burst forth from your chest, as if your old body could not endure the desires and activity of your new soul. Now and then a jolt passes through you, making you twitch involuntarily. It is like one of those sharp sensations of falling that you experience at the end of a day's work, or on a stormy night just before finally falling asleep.

Before going any further, I would like to recount, concerning the sensation of chilliness that I mentioned above, yet another anecdote, which will serve to show how greatly the drug's effects, even the purely physical ones, can vary between individuals. This time the speaker is a man of letters, and some passages of his narrative betray, I think, signs of a literary temperament.

I had taken a moderate dose of rich extract, he told me, and all was going well. The attack of morbid merriment had not lasted long, and I was in a state of languor and stupefaction which was almost one of happiness. I was therefore looking forward to a peaceful and carefree evening.

Unfortunately I was by chance constrained to accompany someone to a theater. I bravely faced the task, determined to disguise my immense desire for idleness and immobility. Since all the carriages in my district were engaged, I had to resign myself to a long walk amidst the harsh noises of carriages, the stupid conversations of passers-by, a whole ocean of trivial stupidities.

I had already begun to feel a slight chilliness in the tips of my fingers. This soon turned into an intense cold, as if both my hands were dipped in a pail of icy water. But this was not a hardship; the almost piercing sensation affected me more as a pleasure. Nevertheless, the cold invaded me more with every step I took on this interminable journey.

Two or three times I asked the person accompanying me if the weather was really very cold. He replied that, on the contrary, the temperature was more than warmish.

When I was at last installed in the body of the theater, shut up in the assigned box, with three or four hours of rest in store for me, I felt as if I had arrived in the Promised Land. The feelings that I had been suppressing on the way, with all the poor strength of which I was capable, now burst in upon me, and I abandoned myself to my silent frenzy. The cold became deeper and deeper; yet I saw that other people were lightly clad, or were even wiping their brows.

I was seized by a delightful notion that I was a man uniquely privileged, alone allowed the right to feel cold in a theater in summer. The cold increased until it became alarming; but I was principally dominated by a curiosity to know how far the thermometer would fall. Finally it fell to such a point, the cold was so complete and general, that all my ideas froze, so to speak. 1 was a block of thinking ice. I felt like a statue hewn from an icy slab. This mad illusion provoked in me a pride, a sense of moral well-being, that I cannot describe to you.

My abominable delight was enhanced by the certain knowledge that none of the spectators was aware of my nature, of my superiority to them. It was gleeful to think that my companion did not for an instant suspect what bizarre sensations had possessed me. I held the reward for my dissimulation: my unique form of pleasure was a real secret.

I should add that, soon after I entered my box, my eyes were assailed by an impression of darkness—which I think is somehow akin to the notion of cold. It was very possible that the two notions mutually strengthen each other.

As you know, hashish always evokes magnificent illuminations, glorious splendors, cascades of liquid gold. Under its influence, all light is good: light that gushes in floods or clings like tinsel to points and rough surfaces; the light of drawing-room candelabra or the tapers of May; the rose-red avalanches of the setting sun. Here in the theater, the light emitted by the wretched chandelier seemed quite inadequate to my insatiable thirst for brightness. I appeared to myself to be entering, as I have said, a world of darkness—a darkness that gradually thickened, whilst I dreamt of polar night and everlasting winter.

The stage itself (the theater habitually shows farces) was the only patch of light, extremely small and far, far away, as if it were at the end of a huge stereoscope. I shall not try to tell you that I listened to the actors, because you know that this would have been impossible. Occasionally my mind caught hold, in passing, a shred of phrase, and like a skilled dancer used it as a springboard from which to leap into remote fantasies.

One might suppose that a play heard in this fashion would lack logic and sequence. Do not make this mistake: I discovered a very subtle meaning in a play created by my errant fancy. Nothing in it took me by surprise: I was like the poet who, on seeing for the first time a performance of "Esther," found it quite natural that Haman should make love to the Queen. (This was the poet's interpretation, as you will have realized, of the scene in which Haman flings himself at Esther's feet to beg forgiveness for his crimes.) If all plays were listened to in this fashion they would gain much new beauty —even the plays of Racine.

The actors seemed to me exceedingly small, and to be clearly and carefully outlined, like figures by Meissonier. 1 could distinctly see not only the most minute details of their costumes—the patterns of the materials, the needlework, buttons, etc.—but also the dividing line between the make-up and the face, the patches of white, blue, and red on their features. These Lilliputians were invested with a cold, magical brightness, like that of a very clean sheet of glass over a painting in oils.

When I was at last able to emerge from this cave of icy darkness, when my inward fantasmagoria had melted away and 1 had returned to my proper senses, I felt more exhausted than I have ever been by any spell of intent and pressing work.

As the narrator indicates, it is at this phase of intoxication that a new subtlety or acuity manifests itself in all the senses. This development is common to the senses of smell, sight, hearing and touch. The eyes behold the Infinite. The ear registers almost imperceptible sounds, even in the midst of the greatest din.

This is when hallucinations set in. External objects acquire, gradually and one after another, strange new appearances; they become distorted or transformed. Next occur mistakes in the identities of objects, and transposais of ideas. Sounds clothe themselves in color, and colors contain music.

"There's nothing at all unnatural about that," the reader will say. "Such correspondences between sounds and colors are easily perceived by a poetic brain in its normal healthy state." But I have already warned the reader that there was nothing positively supernatural about the intoxication of hashish. The difference is that the correspondences take on an unusual liveliness; they penetrate and invade the mind, despotically overwhelming it. Notes of music turn into numbers; and, if you are endowed with some aptitude for mathematics, the melody or harmony you hear, whilst retaining its pleasurable and sensuous character, transforms itself into a huge arithmetical process, in which numbers beget numbers, whilst you follow the successive stages of reproduction with inexplicable ease and an agility equal to that of the performer.

It sometimes happens that your personality disappears, and you develop objectivity—that preserve of the pantheistic poets —to such an abnormal degree that the contemplation of outward objects makes you forget your own existence, and you soon melt into them. Your eye rests upon an harmoniously shaped tree bowing beneath the wind. Within a few seconds something that to a poet would merely be a very natural comparison becomes to you a reality. You begin by endowing the tree with your own passions, your desire or melancholy; its groanings and swayings become your own, and soon you are the tree. In the same way, a bird soaring beneath a blue sky, at first merely represents the immortal yearning to soar above human life; but already you are the bird itself.

Let us suppose that you are sitting and smoking. Your gaze rests a moment too long on the bluish clouds emerging from your pipe. The notion of a slow, steady, eternal evaporation will take hold of your mind, and soon you will apply this notion to your own thoughts and your own thinking substance. By a singular transposition of ideas, or mental play upon words, you will feel that you yourself are evaporating, and that your pipe (in which you are huddled and pressed down like the tobacco) has the strange power to smoke you.
Luckily this apparently interminable fancy has lasted only for a single minute—for a lucid interval, gained with a great effort, has enabled you to glance at the clock. But a new stream of ideas carries you away: it will hurl you along in its living vortex for a further minute; and this minute, too, will be an eternity, for the normal relation between time and the individual has been completely upset by the multitude and intensity of sensations and ideas. You seem to live several men's lives in the space of an hour. You resemble, do you not? a fantastic novel that is being lived instead of being written. . . .