Rimbaud Revealed Chapter 5
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The Expedition to Abyssinia
It took Rimbaud 4 months to reach the capital of Shoa.
After a journey of indescribable hardships, he arrived at Ankober on 6 February 1887. He had, however, not yet come to the end of
his disappointments. Menelek was now planning to make Entoto the capital of his kingdom in place of Ankober. So, Rimbaud decided to go to Entoto to
settle his business with Menelek. At last, one morning, in Entoto, as they got up, the inhabitants heard the guns that Menelek had confiscated in Harar being fired in
royal salute. The king was back! Now in his dealing with Menelek, Rimbaud's real difficulties were beginning. The king was in need of arms but not in the desperate
need he had been a few years before. When Rimbaud had finally, reluctantly, agreed to the wholesale purchase, Menelek conceived of the ingenious and brilliant plan of
holding him responsible for Labatut's (Rimbaud's partner, who had died) alleged debts to him. More creditors now gathered round Rimbaud, like poisonous flies impossible to dislodge. By a certain of them, however, he allowed
himself to be touched. He was, unfortunately for his interests, always moved at the sight of the helplessness of the childish natives
whom the others exploited and bullied, and who, invariably, got the worst of any deal, whether with the foreigners or with their own
people. He also paid in full the small sums claimed by poor peasants, who alleged that they had given these to Labatut for the purchase of
goods at Aden.
"These poor people were always honest and in good faith", he said, "and I allowed my heart to be touched"....
Finally the judge, reversing his previous decision and deciding that Rimbaud's case was hopeless, gave judgement that he was to
abandon the land and the property to the widow in settlement of her claim.
Rimbaud was completely lost and bewildered in the midst of all the claims and counter-claims in this type of law-suit with which he
was unfamiliar. Rimbaud went back to Aden. He wrote to this mother, and he was then only 33: My hair is quite grey. It seems to me that my whole life is decaying. You have only got to imagine what one must be like after
hardships such as these - crossing the sea in an open rowing boat, travelling for days on horseback without change of clothes,
without food, without water. I'm terribly tired! I've no work and I'm terrified of losing the little money that I have..............
He did not remain in Aden for the heat there in the summer was unendurable, but moved on to Cairo, taking the little weekly boat
that plied between the ports of the Red Sea. His torn clothes, his starved mien, his ravaged face and his general apprearance of
weariness and bitterness did not inspire confidence and the French Consul at Massawa, where he first put in without any papers,
detained him and wrote to the Consul at Aden for information concerning 'this fellow whose appearance is somewhat shady'. When
Gaspary had vouched for his honesty and respecitability he was allowed to depart, and he proceeded to Cairo, and there he
published in Le Bosphore Egyptien, the account of his trip to Shoa.
He now had to look for another job. He sent articles to various newspapers such as Le Temps and Le Figaro, but with no success. Rimbaud can have felt nothing but amazed disgust at this smug condescension from a literary ignoramus, of the breed that he most
disliked and despised. He had no curiosity about the fate and the success of his writings which were appearing in Paris as the work
of 'the late Arthur Rimbaud' and out of which Verlaine alone was profiting. His literary compositions reminded him only of feelings
which he had long since forgotten and which he did not wish to revive............. After the three terrible summers spent on the coast, Rimbaud was glad to be back again in the comparative freshness of the
uplands; he was glad to be back once more in a town for which he felt a certain affection, which more nearly resembled a European
town than any other in Abyssinia. Rimbaud, in spite of the toughness of his appearance, never learned to drive a hard bargain to his own advantage. This extreme treatment of himself was contrasted by his generosity to others when his heart was moved. In his rebellious youth he
had considered it a weakness to have been moved to pity, but now he allowed himself, at times, to perform an act of kindness
without being ashamed of it. 'His charity was lavish, unobtrusive and discreet', wrote Bardey, his old employer, 'It is probably one of the few things that he did
without disgust and without a sneer of contempt.....'
He was not without friends in Harar and it is said that his house became, as it were, the club of all those who visited the city; It is
with him they left their money on deposit, it was he who forwarded their mail and arranged for camel transport. 'We would like to give you a little memento,' wrote one of them, 'to thank you for all you've done for us, but you are so peculiar that
we don't know what would please you.'
He must by this time, have altered, on the surface at least, since the days of his insolent and hooligan youth.
Many speak of his wit and the irrepressible, biting humour of his conversation. Someone wrote:
'Will you tell us your secret? I think that your pen is magic like Orpheus's lyre.'
He could talk to all classes of people, to all sorts of tribesmen, on account of his amazing facility for languages and because he
understood the natives and sympathized with them.
'I enjoy on the route quite a bit of consideration,' he wrote to his mother.
'This is due to my being human with the people. The people at Harar are neither more stupid nor greater scoundrels than the white
niggers of countries alleged to be civilized. They are merely of another breed, that is all. They are, if anything, less nasty, and can, in
certain cases, show gratitude and fidelity. It is only a question of being human with them.'
In Harar, as the years went by, the charity, which had always been one of his outstanding qualities, became active and practical. He
was being transformed from a rebel into a public-spirited man. His own future, the making of money, were no longer sufficient for him. His employer Bardey wrote after Rimbaud's death:
'He was the embodiment of loyalty and integrity. Nothing that he ever did was contrary to honour.'
A graphological study of Rimbaud's handwriting at various periods of his life - if any reliance can be placed on these deductions -
claims to reveal the fact that, intellectually, the Colonist was quite the equal of the former poet and that, morally, he was vastly
superior to the old Rimbaud. That was the Rimbaud whom the outside world saw. But there was, as well, the lonely, hidden Rimbaud, desperately unhappy and
starved for affection and intellectual companionship. He frequently wrote home that he was bored, and was leading a wretched life, without family, without friends, without intellectual
companionship, etc. etc.
That is the cry that burst from him so frequently during these last years abroad.
Bardey was of the opinion that Rimbaud, in his heart, was convinced that he had made a mess of his life and that this explained his
bitterness.
He also had the feeling that he intended, when he had saved a sufficient sum of money, to retire from business and to return to the
world of letters. 'Monsieur et cher poete (wrote the editor of La France Modern), I have read your beautiful poems. That explains how happy and proud
I should be to see you head of 'L'ecole decadente et symboliste' and a contributor to 'La France Moderne'.
Please be one of us.'
In the meantime the paper declared that it had discovered his whereabouts, and, at last having heard that he had received its letter,
La France Modern, announced with a cry of triumph on February 19, 1891: Rimbaud does not seem to have answered the paper. It must, however, be remembered that this was at the moment when he fell ill
with the disease which was, the following November, to kill him. If he married it was to be clearly understood that he was to remain free to travel, to roam wherever he wished, for his passion for
wandering had not yet burnt itself out.... The Exile's Return....
Later he began to notice swellings above and below the joint, but these he attributed merely to varicose veins. He bandaged
them tightly and continued his violent exercise. But business was heavy at the moment, he could not ease off work; he tried to forget the condition of his leg and the
throbbing ache which left him no respite. He was losing weight rapidly and his strength was being undermined by his
persistent nausea, and by the insomnia which tortured his nights.
After six weeks of these painful efforts to continue his normal life, he decided to remain in bed, or at least to lie up on a
couch, to see whether constant rest would improve the condition of his leg. His couch was carried into the store and placed
between his desk and the window; from there he could keep an eye on the work going on in the yard and on the scales where
his servants were weighing the coffee-beans and the musk.
There was no doctor in Harar whom he could consult, and, at last, when for weeks now he had been lying up, suffering torture,
unable to move and never sleeping, he decided that he would go down to the coast and then to Aden.
He left Harar on 7 April 1891.
At last he reached Zeyla, almost unconscious with pain. A boat was leaving that day for Aden and he got himself carried on
board.
For three days he lay on a mattress on deck, without food, and without any attention, unable to move, until finally he arrived at
Aden.
He was taken to the European hospital and there the British doctor said that his leg was in a very serious condition and that
immediate amputation might be necessary, but he tried first to see what treatment would do. For six days the treatment was
carried out, six further days of torture. At last, seeing that the treatment was bringing no improvement, the doctor ordered his immediate return to France. From the
very first he considered Rimbaud's case as hopeless, but he had been afraid to take the responsibility of an amputation in
case of the sudden death of the patient, and had preferred to hand him on to someone else's care.
When everything was wound up he said farewell to his faithful Djami and knew in his heart that he would never see him again.
Djami begged to be allowed to accompany him all the way; he was prepared to abandon everything to follow his master to the
ends of the earth. But he was unwilling to separate the young man from his wife and baby.
Then he took the boat for Marseilles, but he was so ill when he landed that they took him immediately to the hospital.
He wrote to his mother: Next he sent off a telegram which said: His mother was quickly stirred to action and immediately on receipt of his telegram she sent one in reply: After her arrival , when further treatment proved of no avail, Rimbaud's right leg was amputated.
She wrote to Isabelle: After she had gone, Rimbaud was full of remorse at his annoyance with his mother, and full of anxiety for his sister. His mother left him behind in great distress, with nothing to occupy his mind but dark and gloomy thoughts of his broken life,
with no friends to console him.
But there sprang up between him, starved for affection and sympathy, and Isabelle, the little sister whom he had scarcely
known, a close relationship developed and fostered from a distance.
It was to her that all the last letters were addressed and it was to her always that he wrote bewailing his sad fate.
He used to reflect bitterly on how active and energetic he had been: Next chapter 'The Unreturning Spring' Rimbaud remained in hospital in Marseilles until the end of July, then he returned to the family house at Roche; like a
wounded animal seeking shelter and a place to hide.
It was twelve years since he had set off, in the autumn of 1879, with his brand new suit of clothes and his fresh hopes, to
endeavour to come to terms with life, to make his peace with it and to build for the future. But life had not accepted his
submission and had thrown him back home, broken in body and in spirit. Isabelle received him with love and rejoicing.
In these twelve long years the letters from her distant brother on the Somali coast had been her only breath of adventure and
romance. Love of money seemed to be, as far as outsiders could tell, the ruling passion of Madame Rimbaud's life, and there seemed
little room in her heart for any other emotion.
Her apparent coldness deeply hurt her son when he came home ill and in need of sympathy and love. During the six years of
his vagabondage, he had always returned for rest and recuperation from his hardships; he had always thought of his family as
being there to receive him with open arms, and at Harar he had looked forward to his home-coming with longing and
eagerness. Rimbaud used to talk to Isabelle frequently of his life in Abyssinia and of his longing to return there.
Isabelle never tired of hearing him describe the life he had led in a country which was hard for her to visualize. Sometimes he
joked and turned it all to fun, pointing out the humour of everything, mimicking those with whom he had been thrown into
contact, and then there was something irresistible in his ironical and acid wit.
But at other times nothing could rouse him to cheerfulness and he only sat in gloomy silence, with his head sunk in his
hands, refusing to say a word.
In spite of rest and quiet his health did not improve at home.
It was thought, at first, that the insomnia, the fever and the continuous pain, were merely due to the fatigue of the long journey
from Marseilles in his condition. The pain was, however, on the increase and allowed him no respite. Then the doctor ordered for him a soporific, to be taken at
night, so that he could snatch some sleep. But Arthur preferred a tea made from the poppy seeds which Isabelle used to
gather in the garden. When he had drunk a cup of this he used to reach a state of half dreaming in which his faculties seemed
to loosen and all his reserves seemed to break down.
Then he felt, what he never experienced otherwise, a desire for confidences, a longing to open his heart. When he was in this
condition he used to close the shutters and doors of his room, light lamps and candles, and he used to relate the story of his
life, tell of his dreams of the past and of his secret hopes for the future. At such moments he was living in a wakeful dream
and returning to the visions of his childhood, to all that he had buried deep in himself for twenty years and which now burst
through the hard crust in a burning stream. With repeated use of the poppy tea, the state of hallucination became permanent. One night, suddenly awaking and
forgetting, momentarily, that he was now a cripple, he jumped out of bed to pursue something that he imagined was in the
room, and he fell heavily to the ground (we all remember that scene!). He gave up going out entirely and only sat under the chestnut-tree in the court and talked of the past.
His one idea was to escape from Roche, to return as soon as possible to Harar. He thought that if he could even reach
Marseilles, his health would surely improve, for there he would at least find sun and heat. ("I want the sun, do you understand me??? I want THE SUN!")
On 23 August 1891, exactly one month after his home-coming he set out for Marseilles, his last journey, and this journey had
in it the hardships of his travels in Abyssinia and his expedition to Shoa in 1887. To be continued....
Menelek (the king) was absent, for he had gone forth on a punitive expedition against Harar intending to seize it before the Italians
made plans to take possession of it.
The journey from Ankober to Entoto took more than three days and Rimbaud discovered on his arrival that the king had again
departed on another punitive expedition amongst his rebellious tribes and he was obliged, once more, to possess his soul in
patience.
Rimbaud, although gifted with dogged endurance that nothing could shake, soon reached the end of his limited stock of patience.
Rimbaud went immediately to the palace officials to crave the honour of an audience with the King, for he was anxious to have his
account settled and then return to Aden.
He did not mean now to pay for Rimbaud's arms unless obliged to do so, he was determined, in any case, to obtain them as cheaply
as possible.
He stated that he had advanced large sums to him for the purchase of the arms two years before, and how he wanted to charge
interest on that money for the whole period. Rimbaud demanded proof of these assertions and the king said he needed two days to
consult the royal archives. A few days later he summoned Rimbaud to his presence and unrolling some records, he showed him
writing in Amharic which he alleged stated that Labatut owed him 3,500 thaler. He said he would deduct this sum from what he
himself would owe Rimbaud, and added with a crafty smile that this was a concession, since in reality the late Labatut's goods were
now his by right. He would not listen when Rimbaud produced proof of Labatut's indebtedness to himself......
As soon as she heard of Rimbaud's arrival, Labatut's widow started a lawsuit in her endeavour to gain possession of the whole
caravan, as Labatut's next of kin.
He arrived in Aden in a state of fatigue and dejection; he reflected bitterly on all the hardships which he had endured since he had
come to the Red Sea cost, seven years before, hardships which had brought him no gain.
He had spent two years of indescribable sufferings on his adventure in Shoa, on which he had built such high hopes, and now he
was back again, where he had been before he started, grateful to have saved from the wreck the amount he had invested in the
undertaking, for at one moment he had feared that all might be lost.
He considered the possibility of being appointed as warcorrespondent to Le Temps, to report on the Italian war with Abyssinia - few
could have been better qualified than he for such a post!
He wrote to Paul Bourde, who had been at school with him, hoping that he would support his claim. But he did not recommend him,
and he was not appointed.
Paul Bourde who, two years before, in Le Temps, had made a violent attack on the new school of poetry, now wrote
condescendingly to Rimbaud describing the vogue his poems were having in Paris, thinking that such kind words of approbation from
a celebrated Paris critic might soften the refusal of work. He wrote:
'You probably don't know, living as far from us as you do, that you've become for a small cenacle in Paris a sort of legendary figure,
one of those people whose death is announced but in whose existence some faithful will persist in believing, and whose return they
await with impatience. They have published in a Latin Quarter review your first attempts in prose and verse, and have even made a
small volume of them. Certain youths, whom I personally consider somewhat naive, have tried to found a system on your 'Sonnet des
Voyelles'.
This little group calls you its master and not knowing what has become of you, earnestly hopes that you will reappear one day to
drag it out of its obscurity. But I hasten to add, in order conscientiously to give you correct information, that all this is without any
practical value whatsoever. Nevertheless, in the midst of much incoherence and strangeness - let me speak frankly - I was struck by
the astonishing virtusosity of these first youthful attempts of yours.......
And so it is on account of that, and also on account of your adventures, that Mary (his wife), who has become a popular and very
successful novelist, and I, we often speak of you with sympathy.'
The Colonist
Rimbaud was glad to get back to this life which he knew so well.
For the next three years he travelled back and forth from Zeyla to Harar, and later, from the new French port of Jibuti. He trekked far
into the provinces of Harar and Ogaden, collecting coffee, hides, gum, ivory and musk, giving in exchange cheap European goods.
But he chiefly sold arms and ammunition.
But whatever happened Rimbaud scraped and pinched in order to collect the capital which was finally to make him independent. This
became the ruling passion of his life.
He was developing his mother's inability to spend ready money. He economized in such a manner that he did not allow sufficient
provisions for the men and the beasts on the journey and all of them used to arrive famished and too weak to move.
Winter and summer he dressed in cheap cotton; day in day out he lived on roughly cooked grain, drinking nothing but water. Mgr.
Jarosseau who knew him at Harar says that he lived soberly and chastely, like a Benedictine monk.
The drinking-shops at Harar, where the Europeans used to meet, never knew him, nor even the coffee-houses.
Not one of his servants worked as hard as he worked; he was up the first in the morning and in bed the last at night, supervising
everything himself.
He rode hundreds of miles on the uneven tracks. And when he left home he used to put a handful of rice in his pocket, this he
afterwards cooked, and that was all the food he would have all day.
He was well known for his generosity to his own countrymen who had failed and whose only desire was now to get home. Many were
those whom he helped out of his own pocket to return to France.
It is difficult to discover precise information of his life at Harar during his last years.
Evelyn Waugh, while travelling in Abyssinia, discovered that he had lived in a little house which was subsequently pulled down and
that he had living with him a native woman. He spoke no more of her than he spoke of his earlier mistress nor was it this woman he
thought of marrying in 1891, when he was planning to settle down permanently in Abyssinia.
Nevertheless the old Rimbaud was not completely tamed, and when he broke loose one realized that, in spite of everything, his
temperament remained as difficult and as uncertain as it had been when he was seventeen. His ungovernable temper would at times
blaze up and his biting irony made him many enemies. Many were the letters written, even to clients, in anger at white heat,
regardless the consequence of his insults. It is the same merciless clarity of vision which, as a boy, had made him so unwelcome a
guest to his sophisticated hosts in the Paris of 1872, the same ruthless irony which had inspired him, as a youth of sixteen to write
'Les Assis' (Those who sit).
The intervening years have only softened the crust, they have not radically changed him.
The tragedy was that he did not live long enough to show the full results of this change.
'I would like to do something good, something useful,' he wrote home, 'What will be the outcome of it all I don't yet know.'
'He was silent and contemplative,' a friend said, 'he often came to see me and we talked only of serious things, but he never spoke of
himself. He used to read a great deal and always seemed far away from everyone.'
He was said to be writing incessantly, but NONE OF THESE WRITINGS WERE FOUND AMONGST HIS PAPERS!
Perhaps he left them in Abyssinia, when he returned to France in 1891 expecting to stay there only until his leg was cured.
Many false rumours of the discovery of papers and poems have been circulated. Perhaps they may one day be found.........
Then we shall know what was the core of this figure of stone walking on stone, what was the constellation that guided him when the
morning star which shone for him as he emerged from Hell, had faded in the sky.
The only paper concerning literature which was found amongst his belongings is a letter from a review inviting him to return to France
and to put himself at the head of the new literary movement. This paper, for some reason, he preserved as if it was something
important to him.
'This time we have got hold of him! We know where Arthur Rimbaud is, the great Rimbaud, the only true Rimbaud, the Rimbaud of
Illuminations.
We proclaim that we know the hiding-place of the missing man.'
It was in February that he informed his mother of the poor state of his health and the condition of his right leg. Perhaps he intended,
later, to do something about the invitation, for he certainly did not destroy the letter.
Rimbaud's sole comforter at Harar, and the only person to whom he seems to have given real affection, was Djami, the Harari boy,
his body servant, his constant companion.
The boy was one of the few people in his life whom he remembered and talked of with affection, the only friend of whom he spoke on
his deathbed, when the thoughts of other men usually turn to those whom they have known in their early youth.
It was Djami's name that was always on his lips when he finally sank into unconsciousness.
There is, however, no shred of evidence to support the contention that his relations with Djami were immoral.
During his last year in Harar Djami married and became a father of a child; the sight of his happiness made Rimbaud long once more
for a family of his own, and it was then he made plans for returning to France to choose a wife whom he would bring back with him to
Harar.
The thought of marriage was in his mind and a few months later he wrote:
'May I come home and get married from your house next spring? But I couldn't possibly consent to live at home, nor to give up my
business here. Do you think that I could find someone willing to come out here with me? I should like an answer to this question as
soon as possible.'
Before the following spring had set in, when he was to go home to find a wife, he was seriously ill. It started in February with a
recurrent twinge in his right knee-cap, but he was not anxious, thinking it merely a rheumatic ache due to the damp of the
Harar winter, which the warm spring would soon dispel.
He had always heard that exercise was the best cure for rheumatism, and he submitted his leg to a violent treatment. With
his habitual disregard for bodily comfort, his usual contempt for physical pain, he continued his ordinary life, his walks of
twenty to forty kilometres a day over the rough paths, his long rides on horseback over the uneven mountain tracks.
Next a fever began to consume him; he felt nausea at the sight of food; while every day his leg became more crippled and
useless. Nevertheless he still continued to force himself to ride and walk.
The disease then spread to his thigh and finally to his calf as well.
Since he could not ride he caused a rude litter to be constructed, with a canvas awning and hired sixteen men to carry him
the three hundrer kilometres to Zeyla, a fortnight's journey. His sufferings on that march through the desert can be imagined.
"I am very, very ill, I've become a skeleton on account of the disease in my right knee, which has now swelled to an enormous
size, and looks like a pumpkin. It will all last a very long time, if further complications don't necessitate amputation. In any
case I'll be a cripple for the rest of my life..... Life has become unbearable!
I'm so wretched! How wretched l am! I've a lot of money on me which I can't even keep an eye on. I can't get out of
bed. What am I to do? What a wretched life! Can't you help me in any way?"
"Today, you or Isabelle come to Marseilles, by express. Monday morning they are amputating my leg. Danger of death. Serious
business to settle."
"Am leaving. Shall arrive tomorrow evening. Courage and patience."
People do not alter, and Madame Rimbaud, though capable of great acts of generosity and sympathy, when she thought the
occasion demanded them, was as incapable now as she had always been of showing her affection to her children and of
surrounding those she loved with the warmth of her feelings. Arthur was bitterly hurt, when ten days after the operation was
over, she left him alone in a state of great distress, to return home.
He did not realize at the time that Isabelle was ill; the illness was not serious, but was sufficient to make his mother feel that
her place was beside her daughter since there was nothing further she could do for her son.
"My boxes are ready, and I mean to leave tomorrow, Tuesday. I'll not be at Roche until Thursday evening. Let no one meet
me. I'd rather arrive alone.
I'd meant to leave today but Arthur's tears moved me; however if I'd stayed I'd have had to stay at least a month; that's
impossible! I'm trying to do everything for the best; may God's will be done."
He wrote to her:
"I was very angry when mother left me, as I didn't understand the reason. But now I see that it's better for her to be
with you to look after you. Will you ask her to forgive me, and greet her from me. Goodbye till who knows when."
"What tediousness, what fatigue, what misery, as I think of all my journeys, and how active I was only five months ago. Where
are the trips through the mountains, the rides, the walks, the deserts, the rivers and the seas?
Now all I have is the life of a legless cripple. For I am beginning to realize that crutches, wooden leg, artificial leg, are all
eyewash, and that with all those one can only drag oneself around unable to do anything.
And I who had just planned to come home to France this summer, to get married. Farewell, marriage! Farewell family!
Farewell future! My life is over! I'm nothing more than a dead tree-trunk!"
He had planned to return with money in his pockets and to take his place, once more, in the world of intellect and literature.
He came back, however, to escape from life and he made no attempt to renew his relations with his early friends, not even
with Delahaye, nor to meet those rising poets who had begged him to come to Paris; none of them knew of his return until he
was dead.
Now the man whom she had idolized in her mind without truly knowing him was returning home and in need of her care and
tenderness, and she gave him all the passionate affection of her heart.
She prepared for his reception the finest room in the house, decking it with flowers, and her heart leaped with joy when, on his
return, stopping with amazement on the threshold of the room before he entered, he cried:
"Why! It is Versailles here!"
Now his mother's hardness and lack of warmth and sympathy broke something in him, and those who saw him at Roche,
during these last months, were struck by his growing resentment against her.
On the other hand his affection and tenderness for his sister grew in intensity with each passing day. It was she alone who
looked after him and she devoted to the task much time stolen from the work of the farm.
It was she who always set his room to rights and kept it bright with flowers.
But the insomnia persisted and the continuous pain did not abate. He began soon to notice that the stump of the severed leg
seemed to be increasing in size, while an intolerable ache was beginning to be felt in his right armpit, and his right arm, at
times, seemed to be deprived of feeling.
When the doctor came to attend him, Rimbaud would look up at him, with cold, piercing eyes, from which all colour seemed
to have faded, trying to read what might be hidden from him. Yet he kept on repeating that whatever happened he would
undergo no further operation, that he was determined to keep all his remaining limbs...
Yet once, when the doctor spoke to him of his poetry and literature, he made a gesture of disgust. Yet at this very time, in
1891, Rimbaud's fame was at its height in the literary circles in Paris, but none of those who acclaimed him as the greatest
poet of the nineteenth century, knew that, scarcely three hours' distance away, the poet they revered was ending his life in a
kind of dream.
His sister hearing the noise of his fall, rushed into his aid and found him lying helpless and dazed on the floor.
She helped him to bed; luckily his fall had done him no injury, but it brought him back to reality out of his protracted dream.
He wondered, then, what he might have revealed of his inner self when under the influence of the tea, and he refused to touch
it again. He would have no more opiates and his sufferings grew in intensity with the passing days.
Isabelle accompanies him on his trip. They travel by train, and Rimbaud is in great pain most of the time. It was an agonizing trip!
They finally arrive at Marseilles and Rimbaud was carried immediately to the hospital which he was not to leave alive.