Gamblers
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
translated by Richard Howard (Baudelaire, Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets)

They sit in shabby armchairs, ancient whores
with eyebrows painted over pitiless eyes,
simpering so that the garish gems they wear
jiggle at their withered powdered ears.

Around the green felt, lipless faces loom
or colourless lips and toothless jaws, above
feverish fingers that cannot lie still
but fumble in empty pockets, trembling breasts;

under the dirty ceilings and a row
of dusty chandeliers, the low-hung lamps
sway over famous poets’ shadowed brows,
the sweat of which they come to squander here;

this hideous pageant passed before my eyes
as if a nightmare picked out each detail:
I saw myself in a corner of that hushed den
watching it all, cold, mute – and envious!

envying the stubborn passion of such men,
the deadly gaiety of those old whores –
all blithely trafficking, as I looked on,
in honour or beauty – whatever they could sell!

Horrible, that I should envy these
who rush so recklessly into the pit,
each in his frenzy ravenous to prefer
pain to death, and hell to nothingness!

We need purpose to propel us forwards. Without purpose – even if it is only to get up in the morning and walk the dog that waits by the front door – we vegetate. The gambler is given purpose in his (or her) need to place a bet and satisfy the inner craving that torments him. A loss only encourages him to try again to make up for it; a win only cements his addiction. Baudelaire recognises the passion that gambling engenders. It may be destructive, but that need to gamble imparts something to live for, even if it kills us.

He begins his poem by focusing on individuals; armchairs are quickly populated by ancient whore-bodies, whereupon he moves his attention to the nightmarish detail of their faces, and finds their eyes pitiless beneath painted brows as if they have been sucked dry of human compassion. He notes how their fingers are “feverish” and “cannot lie still”; imagine those desperate digits fumbling in empty pockets, hoping for the magical appearance of money. Trembling breasts give the impression of barely subdued panic as the owners of those breasts realise they have nothing left.

Here, the women are decaying – their deathly gaiety is a façade to bolster their inner crumblings. The shabby armchairs, dirty ceilings and dusty chandeliers lend only the illusion of grandeur to the environment in which the fantasies of the gamblers are maintained.

While there are famous poets who squander their creative energies (the sweat of their brows), Baudelaire does not include himself; perhaps he is demonstrating humility. Or perhaps he is making the point that he is not so foolish. He observes himself unmoved as he watches the “hideous pageant”; he is a voyeur; an outsider, transfixed by the frenzied efforts of the gamblers in pursuing their nemesis.

When all around us are focused in one direction we are ignored unless we join in and take the drug, place the bet or swig the drink. Meanwhile, those “old whores” are “blithely trafficking” themselves with the promise of their bodies, or what is left of their looks, perhaps to get a man or money or a bet placed on their behalf.

The gamblers prefer “pain to death, and hell to nothingness!” which appals Baudelaire even though he envies their “stubborn passion”, which is also dedication. When pain is too great to bear, some of us would die to escape it. When our lives are impossibly difficult we might desperately wish for “nothingness”; a life of calm without conflict or craving – but not if we are a gambler; such respite would be unbearably frustrating – we would far rather have the promise of the next turn of the card or spin of the wheel. Baudelaire sees that to be without passion – even if it is a destructive passion – and living a contented life is worse for some than the daily Hell of nursing an addiction. Feeding an addiction gives us the illusion that we have some kind of purpose; almost any addiction will do.

The room of chandeliers is akin to a torture chamber, but all the inmates have chosen to be there until they rot or are financially vanquished, when they may disappear into one of their own empty pockets.

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