In our 9A group, we focused on The Gothic Tradition in the first part of this term. The Gothic Tradition traditionally involves elements of horror and romance. 

As a class we analysed "The Eyes of the Poor" by Charles Baudelaire. As a homework task, our pupils were asked to rewrite the piece from the point of view of the lady.

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE- The Eyes of the Poor

Oh!  You want to know why I hate you today.  It will undoubtedly be less easy for you to understand than it will be for me to explain, for you are, I believe, the most beautiful example of feminine impermeability one could ever encounter.

We had spent together a long day that had seemed short to me.  We had indeed promised that we would share all of our thoughts with one another, and that our two souls would henceforth be one — a dream that isn’t the least bit original, after all, if not that, dreamed of by all men, it has been realized by none.

In the evening, a bit tired, we wanted to sit down in front of a new café that formed the corner of a new boulevard, still strewn with debris and already gloriously displaying its unfinished splendors.  The café was sparkling.  The gaslight itself sent forth all the ardor of a debut and lit with all its force walls blinding in their whiteness, dazzling sheets of mirrors, the gold of the rods and cornices, chubby-cheeked page-boys being dragged by dogs on leashes, laughing ladies with falcons perched on their wrist, nymphs and goddesses carrying on their heads fruits, pies, and poultry, Hebes and Ganymedes presenting in out-stretched arms little amphoras filled with Bavarian cream or bi-colored obelisks of ice cream — all of history and all of mythology at the service of gluttony.

Right in front of us, on the sidewalk, a worthy man in his forties was standing, with a tired face, a greying beard, and holding with one hand a little boy and carrying on the other arm a little being too weak to walk.  He was playing the role of nanny and had taken his children out for a walk in the night air.  All in rags.  The three faces were extraordinarily serious, and the six eyes contemplated fixedly the new café with an equal admiration, but shaded differently according to their age.

The father’s eyes said: “How beautiful it is!  How beautiful it is!  You’d think all the gold in this poor world was on its walls.” — The eyes of the little boy: “How beautiful it is!  How beautiful it is!  But it’s a house only people who aren’t like us can enter.” — As for the eyes of the smaller child, they were too fascinated to express anything other than a stupid and profound joy.

Song-writers say that pleasure makes the soul good and softens the heart.  The song was right this evening, as regards me.  Not only was I moved by this family of eyes, but I also felt a little ashamed of our glasses and our carafes, which were larger than our thirst.  I turned my gaze toward your’s, dear love, to read my thoughts there; I plunged into your so beautiful and so bizarrely gentle eyes, into your green eyes, inhabited by Caprice and inspired by the Moon, and then you said to me: “I can’t stand those people over there, with their eyes wide open like carriage gates!  Can’t you tell the head-waiter to send them away?”

So difficult is it to understand one another, my dear angel, and so incommunicable is thought, even between people in love!”

Here is Emily Holden's response:

I cannot understand you. You have been so cold to me, ever since that beautiful, beautiful day.

   It had been a long day, but it had been lovely all the same. We had promised one another to share our thoughts, to be in love forever, one person instead of two. Oh, how romantic it had been! Oh what a glorious day it was! I'm so glad I spent it with you!

   However, by evening, I was exhausted, and in desperate need of rest. We found a wonderful little cafe, resting on the edge of a newly-built road. A sweet place - but nothing particularly special. Good enough though. It obviously wasn't completely finished (there was a thin layer of debris hanging over it all) but I was so exhausted, I barely noticed. It had lovely cornices: all to do with gastronomy, portraying immortal beings enjoying their gluttony, practically glowing thanks to the glittering lights all around them.

   Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, there appeared a terrifyingly dirty, horrid monster that could barley be classified as a man, and two equally disgusting pieces of vermin attached to him. He towered over us, my love, staring hungrily at everything: the food, the cornices, the glittering lights. The children had the same look in their own orbs, gloating at everything as if they were about to devour it all. How perfectly horrid!

   I turned to you, my love, and you looked at me at the same second. I felt so grateful you were with me; I don't know what those horrible beings might have done if you hadn't been there with me! The family of vermin would have been better suited in a rubbish heap; not a delicate place like this.

   Their gazes loomed over us until I finally couldn't stand it. "I can't stand those people, with their eyes like wide open gates," I told you in all earnestness. "Couldn't you ask the manager to get rid of them?"

   In the end, they did leave. But the coldness, the stiffness in your manner was barely concealable. I can't understand it. Was it because I ate a tad too much?

Next we have Alessandro Gressani's response:

One of the best days of my life had just ended. We swore loyalty to each other and that all our thoughts and feelings would be shared between us. After having walked all day through the most spectacular streets and corners of the City of Lights, we decided to stop in a rather dirty boulevard still undergoing its construction; and sat at a café. The café was very well furnished, with golden cornices and large mirrors; and the food was elegantly served in jars and beautifully decorated plates. It was a place worthy for people of our status.            However, as most things in life, there was a clearly indecent side to this. Just there, on the road, so close to our table, an old, filthy man, with an unrestrained beard and a child in his hands, had suddenly appeared. Another child, slightly older, stood at his side, pulling at what probably was his father’s rags. I can’t imagine the lack of hygiene of those people – they shouldn’t be allowed near us, God knows what inhumane diseases they carry. Their troubled facial expressions, their eyes staring intensely at us, looking for things to steal or ready to beg for some of the food that was being brought constantly to our table.

Their gaze felt as if it could bore holes through us, till I eventually could not endure it for a second longer and I implored, "I can't stand those people over there, with their eyes wide open like carriage gates! Can't you tell the head-waiter to send them away?

            I’m terribly surprised and filled with indignation, at the thought that you my very love had done nothing at all to send those creatures away from us, but limited yourself to stare into my eyes with an expression of loathing and disgust.

And finally Sadin Abdul- Fattah's piece:

                                

       I can’t understand you. You’re being so cold towards me, ever since that beautiful but ruined day...            We had passed a short day that seemed long to me. We had shared many things possible and promised each other to unite our thoughts, even though they differ immensely, and to join our precious souls as one- even if that was a dream dreamt by all and achieved by none, I was sure that we could do it.                                                                            Once I got tired you took me to a new, quite average, café nearby town. I would have preferred something fancier, but you clearly thought that it was luxurious enough, so we stayed. The café was quite a sight, but I’d seen much better. They did have beautiful, elegant and polite waiters, offering ripe fruits, little jars of sweetmeats and even Swiss chocolate- which honestly was a credit to them , because only extremely fancy restaurants and café’s offer them; and I absolutely love them.  

     Then, all of a sudden, right in front of us, on the roadway stood an unworthy man of forty-odd with a disgusting beard: he looked tired and dirty, as he held a little boy’s hand with grimy, calloused fingers, while on the other hand he carried a weak, emaciated baby. They were all in rags. The three faces were strikingly solemn, and all six scrawny eyes were staring at the café in awe.       Their eyes cried “how beautiful and amazing”. They were filled with joy. One would think all the world’s gold was here-it was merely a café!  Didn’t they feel ashamed? Coming here where they don't  belong and ruining my evening with their desperate eyes. I was suddenly grateful that I didn’t know them, for I would be embarrassed by their needy eyes. They were making me uncomfortable and annoyed so I said to you ‘I can’t stand these people, with their eyes like wide open gates. Couldn’t you ask the manager to get rid of them?’      

That’s when I saw the pity in your eyes for them. That’s how difficult it is to understand each other, my love, that’s how much our thoughts are incongruous, despite being in love.      And that’s when your cruelty and coldness began towards me…