Rimbaud Revealed Chapter 4

From One of the poems of Une Saison en Enfer:

At four o'clock on a summer morning,
the sleep of love still lasts.
Under the spinneys evaporate scents
of the festive night.
Down there, in their huge workshop
in the Hesperidean sun,
already stir - in shirtsleeves - the Carpenters.
In their Wilderness of foam,
peacefully, they prepare costly
canopies, on which the town will paint false skies.

O, for these Workmen, charming subjects
of a king of Babylon,
Venus! leave for moment the lovers, whose souls are wearing crowns.
O Queen of the Shepherd, bring strong liquor to the workers,
so that their strength may be calmed until the sea-bathe at noon.......

SOLDE

It is interesting to speculate on whether Rimbaud's literary life would have been different if he had not - as a gesture of disgust and revolt against his fellow-men of letters - felt impelled to destroy his manuscripts and papers. This action increased his feeling of loneliness and isolation, and cut him off still further from others.
The world had not appreciated his recantation, nor had it understood his great plan for humanity, his great work, and the world had spurned it.
His pride and tenderest feelings had been wounded past healing, as a result, he developed a dislike for literary men and their ways, which he was never to lose. The gentle feelings of good-will with which he had emerged from his sojourn in Hell were turned to bitterness, thus he determined that he would never again seek the approval of others.

We do not know what he was doing from November 1873 to February 1874. In February he was certainly in Paris and it is said that it was then that he made the acquaintance of Germain Nouveau, a wild bohemian poet a couple of years older than himself with whom he had much in common. What is certain is that, in February or March 1874, they went over to London together and shared a room in a boarding-house. It is said that they worked in a cardboard box factory at starvation pay, and that they eventually gave up the employment as they found the life a senseless waste of valuable time. This was probably Rimbaud's first experience of the real life of a working man. This may have inspired the poem Ouvriers (Workmen) in 'Illuminations'. On his previous visits to London he had lived on Verlaine's expense.

Germain Nouveau and Rimbaud eventually separated and went their different ways - the former was back in Paris by the month of June. Perhaps the latter then set up house with a girl, as the aforementioned poem 'Workmen' might suggest, for he mentions 'ma femme' (my woman).

During the summer of 1874 Rimbaud's mother and sister Vitalie came to stay with him in London. The reason why is not clear. Rimbaud rented for them a room, in a finely built house, looking out onto the gardens, which Vitalie calls a park. "Underneath the windows of our room", wrote Vitalie to her sister, "there are large quantities of flowers, shaded by enormous trees."
Vitalie's 'Journal' is a complete record of the visit to London and we learn that Rimbaud shepherded his mother on tours round the capital, but he seems also to have spent much time studying at the British Museum.
The main interest Vitalie's journal has for us today is in the picture that it conjures up unconsciously of Rimbaud. It should be read by those who persist in seeing him only as a hooligan, an anarchist and a sadist who brought nothing but unhappiness to his family.
Without conscious effort Vitalie gives us the impression of an older brother good-humoured, willing and kind, who, seeing how distressed she was, tries to make things happier for her. She is cross and overcome by the summer heat and longs for an ice or lemonade. He seems to guess her silent wish and procures them for her. "Arthur is so kind," she writes, "he guessed my wish and gratified it. An ice-cream, how delicious that is!"
He even accompanied his mother to show her the best shops and helped her in her purchases for she did not know a word of English. But Vitalie, still disagreeable and cross, followed them at a short distance behind. He, seeing how bored and disgruntled she was at this expedition, suggested that they should - when the shopping was over - visit Kensington Gardens and he gave her a drink from one of the fountains. She describes it as "simple et naif" and in these words can be heard the echo of an ironic description by Rimbaud himself......

The reason why Madame Rimbaud and Vitalie were kept so long in London was that the mother wanted to see her son settled in a job before she left. He constantly puts advertisements in the newspapers....to no avail.
During the week of July 18, Rimbaud became progressively gloomier and more irritable - he was no longer described by Vitalie as 'kind and smiling'. At last, on 29 July, as he went out in the morning to work at the British Museum, he said that he would not come home for lunch. At ten, however, he returned saying that he had found a job and that he would be leaving to take it up the following day.
He left at half-past-four in the morning, and he seemed sadder than ever. His mother was in tears after his departure. Why was he so sad as he left, and why did his mother, who should have been pleased that he had, at last, found employment, weep so bitterly after he had gone, as she wrote in her letters? And where did he go so early in the morning?
We do not know....... he most probably took up a post in Reading and he remained there till the end of the year, when he left England never to return.......

L'homme aux semelles de vent

For the next five years Rimbaud became a wanderer over the face of Europe, venturing as far as Cairo, Alexandria and Java. Rimbaud felt that all time which he spent inactively was time wasted. That is what gave the impression of restlessness.
"Why must so much precious time be lost?", he said to Delahaye.

Verlaine called him l'homme aux semelles de vent and, in a poem written somewhat later, he described the 'wanderlust' of his friend.

Verlaine did not appreciate what it was that was impelling Rimbaud forward. He thought that he was walking ceaselessly in order to stifle in his soul his longing for higher things. He describes him as destroying the powers of his mind, and becoming incapable of intellectual effort.

In January 1875 he went to Stuttgart as a paying-guest to a family called Wagner. He worked diligently, attaining a thorough knowledge of the language and hoping to finish his studies by the spring.
He was very gifted for languages and the facility which had been evident, when he was a small boy, in Latin, he showed now in every language he chose to learn.

His mother, careful as ever, would not send him sufficient money and, to supplement his allowance, he was obliged to take menial work. In Germany, as in England, he did not find it an easy job to earn his living.

That year, in January, Verlaine was released from prison. In February he went to Paris, hoping, foolishly, for a reconciliation with his wife who had obtained her separation from him the previous year, when he was in prison. He was not permitted to see either her or the child. Completely without plans for his future, Verlaine thought again of Rimbaud, and of picking up once more the broken threads of his relationship with him.

He extracted his address in Germany from Delahaye, and wrote him an edifying and highly moral letter which he said that he had meditated upon at great length during his years in prison. This letter, in which he begged Rimbaud to become reconverted to Catholicism, ended with the words, "Let us love one another in Jesus Christ".

Rimbaud, apparently, received the letter with blasphemous language, but agreed, nevertheless, that Verlaine might visit him. "The other day", wrote Rimbaud, "Verlaine arrived in Stuttgart, with a rosary in his paws, but three hours later he denied God, and made the ninety-six wounds of our Blessed Lord bleed again". (in Total Eclipse, recall the scene in the Black Forest!: "I am offering you an archetypical choice between my body and my soul.........CHOOSE!" When Verlaine (Thewliss) chooses his body, Rimbaud cries, "May the ninety-six wounds of our Blessed Lord Burst and bleed again!").

The attempt at conversion failed lamentably. It must have been a sad and unedifying spectacle, the reunion of the two 'compagnons d'enfer'. It was a repetition of the last months of their life in London in 1873. They trekked from bar to bar, Rimbaud becoming, with intoxication, violent and blasphemous, and Verlaine pious and sentimental.

Finally they went for a walk on the banks of the Neckar, where a violent quarrel took place. It is possible to imagine that Verlaine - who never, for the rest of his life and in the midst of his other and various adventures, forgot his first passion for Rimbaud - made advances to him which he repulsed. Then Verlaine, excited by the now unwanted alcohol, attacked Rimbaud and struck him.

Rimbaud was also in an advance state of intoxication, he was the stronger and the tougher of the two, he hit back and ran away, leaving him unconscious on the ground, where, on the banks of the river, he was found the following morning by some peasants going to their work. They picked him up and bore him in their cart to the town.

Verlaine, now sobered and repentant, bewailed, with bitter tears, his fall from grace, and the way in which Satan, in the shape of Rimbaud, had so easily tempted him, and taken possession of him again.

He remained two further days in Stuttgard, then, on the advice of Rimbaud, returned to Paris, with the intention of going over to England to take up a post as a teacher of French in a Grammar school. This is generally thought to be the last time Verlaine and Rimbaud ever met....

In the summer of 1875 Rimbaud left for Italy. By the time he reached Altdorf (Switzerland) his money had given out, and he was obliged to cross the Alps on foot. He arrived in Italy in an exhausted state, and almost starving, but it is said that, in Milan, a charitable widow, recognizing in him a cultivated and educated man, gave him shelter for some days. It was for her that he asked Delahaye to return him the copy of Une Saison en Enfer, which he had given him two years before, so that he could present it to his hostess, as evidence of his competence as a writer. This meant that he must, therefore, have discussed literature with her and what he had done himself.
After leaving the kindly Signora, Rimbaud set out, on foot, for Brindisi where he was to take the boat for Paros. It was then midsummer and, being unused to southern heat, he was struck down on the road by sunstroke. He was carried in a serious condition to hospital, and, when he was released, he was repatriated to Marseilles.

By the end of August his money was exhausted and he returned to Charleville on foot. The elder daughter Vitalie, then seventeen, who had never been strong, was desperately ill, and the home atmosphere was very gloomy.
The mother's temper had of late become very much soured through anxiety for her daughter's state of health and disappointment in her sons. Frederick was completely hopeless. This she could have borne with resignation, had Arthur fulfilled his promise and it was against him she nourished most bitterness; When he was at home she grudgingly allowed him board and lodging, but she would not give him any pocket-money.

Rimbaud tried to borrow money from all his friends, including Verlaine. But Verlaine was now of the opinion, that, in the past, he had been too generous and that is was time to show Rimbaud that he could no longer be imposed upon. Delahaye said in a letter to Verlaine, that if Rimbaud persisted in his present mode of life, he would undoubtedly end up in a lunatic asylum.

There is little doubt that by 1875 Rimbaud had ceased to write. Delahaye, in a letter to Verlaine at this time says: "Verses of his? His inspiration has long since run dry."

This is part of a letter Verlaine wrote to Rimbaud from London in December 1875:

As for the question of money. You can't seriously fail to recognize that I'm generous. It's one of my few qualities - or one of my many vices - whichever you prefer. But, on account of the necessity of building up again my little capital which was seriously eaten into by our absurd and shameful life three year sago, and also taking into consideration my son, and finally on account of my new and firm principles, you must understand that I can't possibly keep you. Where indeed would the money go? To pubs and prostitutes! And as for piano lessons? What a question! Wouldn't your mother agree to pay for them if you really need them? Last April you wrote such nasty and self-revealing letters, so full of the vilest intentions, that I can't now risk giving you my address. Although all your plans to harm me would be in vain, I tell you in advance, and besides I warn you that these would be answered legally, with evidence. But I put aside all the odious whim of yours, a brand storm that a little calm reflection will soon clear away. However, prudence is mother of security and you will have my address only when I'm sure of you. That is why I begged Delahaye not to give it to you, and I asked him to be kind enough to forward all your letters. Come! Show a little kindness, consideration and affection for someone who will always remain your... Paul Verlaine.

PS Later I'll explain to you, via Delahaye, the life I would like to see you lead, religion apart, although this is my chief advice - as soon as you've answered properly.

Rimbaud did not sense the genuine affection in the letter; he felt only the smug piety, the insulting caution and the condescension. His satisfactory answer was never written and the friends never met again.

All that winter Rimbaud remained at Charleville and seemed undecided what to do next. He did not, however, remain idle, but appears to have been employed intellectually, learning Arabic, Hindustani and Russian.

At this time one of the strangest of Rimbaud's vagaries occurred, his determination to learn music, and to play the piano. There is a drawing by Verlaine which depicts Rimbaud at the piano, playing with great vigour, the sweat pouring from his forehead, and the caption says: 'La musique adoucit les moeurs.' (Music softens the senses). This seems to be the last occasion on which Rimbaud showed any interest in artistic or literary topics.

The ailing Vitalie died on 18 December 1875, and Madame Rimbaud locked herself more tightly into her rigid austerity.

When the winter was over and spring had come, Rimbaud set off once more on his wanderings. This time his intention was to reach Russia and it had been with this journey in view that he had been learning the language all the winter. However, he did not reach any further than Vienna. On arrival in that city he took a carriage and, most ill-advisedly, struck up a friendship with the driver, who proved a scoundrel who robbed him of all his money and his luggage.
To obtain food he was obliged to beg in the streets. He was then arrested for vagrancy and led to the frontier as an undesirable alien; there he was handed into the custody of the German police, and in this way, was finally deposited, without a penny in his pocket, in French territory.
From there he tramped on foot to Charleville. He had by this time, says Delahaye, grown enormously strong and tough, and in his whole appearance, he had the hardened look of the habitual tramp.
His long legs calmly covered the ground in enormous strides. He had a look of resigned defiance, the look of a man ready for anything, without anger and without fear.

He soon found the family atmosphere intolerable and he stayed at home only a short time. It was still spring and he was always on the road until autumn, coming home to roost in the winter like a bird.

His idea was now to find some means of reaching the East. He made his way to Holland where he enlisted in the Dutch army to go to Java.

He signed on for a term of six years. He sailed on 10 June 1876, on board the Prince of Orange, and the journey took six weeks.
The boat docked at Batavia on 23 July.

Rimbaud was attached to the first battalion of infantry, but soon grew weary of the rigours of army routine. For six years now he had done little else but follow his own inclinations, and he had left school at fifteen before he had had time to form habits of discipline. He deserted on the first opportunity, three weeks after his arrival.

He tried to get back to Europe:
The ship most likely to have brought Rimbaud back was a British ship: 'The Wandering Chief', it was carrying a cargo of sugar, and it left Samarang on 30 Aug.
It arrived at Le Havre on 17 December. He was not employed on board as a seaman, but he might have returned on it at his own expense, and he was quite capable of inventing a romantic story of his exploits. German Nouveau describes him, on his way through Paris, as dressed in a British sailor's uniform, which he said he had been given by the crew because his own clothes were in rags after his trek through the jungle - - it may however, have been because he was still in his Dutch soldier's uniform, which was not safe for him to wear since he was a deserter.
Germain Nouveau always called him 'Rimbaud the Sailor' on the analogy of 'Sinbad the Sailor', from the Arabian Nights.

Rimbaud returned to Charleville for his annual winter rest. His mother now accepted his vagaries as her mortal cross, with stoic and Christian resignation, but not with amiability. She was more silent and dour than ever, and, in the home, scarcely a word was exchanged between the various members of the family.

Spring saw Rimbaud on the road once more. This time he went to Hamburg looking for employment on a ship sailing east. He found, that he could not endure the cold of the northern capitals, he who had always gone south of east in search of the sun...... from Total Eclipse, "I want the sun, do you hear me? I WANT THE SUN!!"

After he got home Rimbaud felt that he could not endure the whole stretch of the winter in company with his silent mother. He set out for Alexandria in search of warmth. He did not, however, reach Alexandria this time; unfortunately he was taken ill on board the ship and was landed on the Italian coast. When he had sufficienly recovered to leave hospital, the winter had set in and it was too late to start on any further journeys, so he was forced to return home. His illness had left him in a feeble state of health, and he remained almost a year at home, until the following autumn. His mother however, refused to keep him in idleness, and he worked on the farm at Roche, all through the spring and summer.

He left home in October 1878, and went again to Hamburg, hoping once more for a ship that would take him out east. There he learned that, if he wished to reach Italy, he would be obliged to cross the mountains on foot. He set out on foot in a violent snowstorm. When he thought that he had reached the limits of his powers of endurance, he reached the Hospice and he was safe. The following morning Rimbaud set off, invigorated by his night's rest.

Finally he reached Lugano where he could take the train for Genoa to board the boat for Alexandria. High up on a pillar in the temple of Luxor, near Alexandria, the name 'Rimbaud' has been deeply carved in the stone. No one nowadays could do this as a practical joke, or unnoticed and without the aid of a tall ladder and scaffolding. But sixty years ago - or thereabouts - before the temple had been completely excavated, when only the top of the pillars emerged from the sand, it would have been an easy task, and so all the old signatures appear at the top of buildings. At that time Rimbaud was virtually unknown and it would not have occurred to anyone to do such a thing as a joke. Did he possibly visit Luxor, when he was in Alexandria, or is it only a coincidence of name??

He worked for a while in Egypt and than crossed over to Cyprus. He remained in Cyprus until June 1879, when he fell ill with typhoid and he returned home to recuperate. When Delahave saw him after his six months abroad this time he did not, at first, recognize him so changed was he. All that he recognized were his eyes, THOSE EXTRAORDINARY BEAUTIFUL EYES, which had not yet lost their colour.

Home that winter was drearier than ever, for there only remained Isabelle - now eighteen - and her mother.

In October 1879, Rimbaud reached his 25th birthday, and his friends began to notice a change in him. Delahaye describes him at the end of 1879 as having considerably calmed down and sobered. He seemed to have lost all taste for alcohol and for excitement, and there was, in the expression of his eyes, something gentle and spiritual once more. The possession of which he was then most proud and which he valued most was the good reference his employer at Cyprus had given him.

Rimbaud told Delahaye that his days of wandering were over - it was as if he had suddenly come to new decisions - and he told him of his ambitions for the future. He talked now of it as if he saw some direction and pattern in it, but he did not mention any of his old interests - neither history, philosophy, nor literature. "And what about literature?" Delahaye asked suddenly, "Oh! I never think of that now!", he answered gruffly. Then he hastily changed the subject...........

He then announced that he was going away, this time for a long period, and that he would not be seen again for several years. Before he left for abroad this time some of his old friends invited him to spend the evening with them at a little cafe at Charleville. When he arrived he was dressed in new clothes from top to toe, looking very smart and spruce. He told them that he had bought the new suit because the bills were to be sent to his mother after his departure. All the evening he was very gay, in better form than they had seen him for many years. It was as if he had shaken off a heavy load. He had come to some momentous decision about his future.

Twenty-five is an important milestone in the life of a man. He could no longer consider himself a youth; it was time to take on a man's estate and responsibilities, and to see the pattern of his life. He was now going to settle down and build for the future, taking the world as it was, with its disappointments and limitations. His years of vagabondage were now at an end. He was going to work for a career, like any ordinary man; he was going to climb up the ladder of common sense, slowly, and by his own painful efforts. He intended to reach the uppermost rung, and cling there.

At eleven o'clock he left his friends and none of them was ever to see him again.........

The Coffee Exporter.....

After spending some time in Cyprus, working, he quarreled with his employer. He left with his savings and travelled down the Red Sea, calling in at the ports on both sides of the coast, to look for work.
In August he was discovered in Aden, ill with fever, by a coffee exporter called Pierre Bardey, who had pity on him and gave him a post in his store at Aden.
Rimbaud hated Aden from the very first.
'That horrible rock!' he called it. There was not a blade of grass and not a drop of fresh water, for they were obliged to drink distilled sea water.

Bardey gives Rimbaud another position in Harar. His salary is raised and he gets a commission on all profits. Rimbaud hoped, on arriving at Harar, as the only Frenchman, to have the monopoly of all the trades and thus to increase his possibilities of making a fortune quickly. Soon he began to grow lonely in Harar, shut away from any one of his own nationality, with no companionship or interest outside his work.

Months seemed to slip by without bringing any appreciable change in his fortunes and his discontent grew. He had expected more and now he felt that he was wasting his youth toiling for others and not advancing his own interest.

He wrote to his mother who had been ill:
"My dear mother, I'm glad to hear that you're better and that you can rest. At your age it would indeed be miserable to be obliged to work. I, unfortunately, don't care a bit about life, and I'm used to living on fatigue. Nevertheless, if I'm forced to continue, as now, to wear myself out, living on nothing but worries, as absurd as they are violent, I greatly fear that my life will be shortened.... Well! Let's hope that we may enjoy a few years of real rest in this life. It's fortunate that this life is the only one, since one can't imagine another life with more boredom than this one."

To add to his other worries he fell seriously ill. Syphilis was rampant in Harar and he, less careful or more unlucky than others, contracted the disease. It is not known whether he was ever fully cured, but as long as he thought that he was contagious he kept himself rigorously away from others, eating alone and apart from them. He continues to work, and does some exploring, travelling through the desert, to places no one has ever been before, but after that, he remained in Harar lonely and discouraged......

He wrote to his mother: "Solitude is a bad thing, and I'm beginning to regret never having married with a family of my own. At the present moment, however, I'm obliged to wander over the face of the earth, tied as I am to a distant undertaking. And every day my taste grows less and less for the climate and the ways of living in Europe. But alas, what do these ceaseless comings and going profit me, these adventures, these hardships amongst foreign races, these languages with which I fill my mind; what is the use of all this indescribable suffering, if I'm not one day, after a few years, to rest in a place that I more or less like, and have a family of my own, a son at least, whom I shall spend the rest of my life in training according to my own ideas, providing him with the best and most complete education which can be obtained today, and whom I'll see grow into a famous engineer, a man rich and powerful through science? But who knows how long I may last in these mountains here; I may lose my life amongst these people, without any news of me ever coming out again."

It is pathetic that so much creative energy and eagerness should have overflowed and spread so widely, draining away and leaving no trace. Rimbaud's interest never took him the whole way, the match burned with a bright spurt and then always flickered out. Even his ambition to make money rapidly could not sustain him, the work he was obliged to do bored him unutterably, and he was never able to do day after day what bored him, in the hope of greater gain. It was this characteristic, which made him unsuccessful when others less courageous and less intelligent than he succeeded.

It was at this time that Verlaine approached him again, telling him of his plan to devote an article to him and to his writings, and begging him for further material. But Rimbaud did not trouble to answer the letter and he was not sufficiently interested to read the article when eventually it appeared. To his mother who always thought it necessary to keep him posted with the latest political news of France, he answered: "If only you knew how indifferent I am to all that now. It's two years since I've looked at a paper. All these debates and arguments are now totally incomprehensible to me. Like the Muslims, I know what has happened and no more......"

He used to say that in his loneliness and solitude all that interested him now was news of home, and to sit refreshing his mind with the mental image of their calm and pastoral life in France, so different from the brutality of his. A change was gradually taking place in him. It was as if he no longer was content with being an independent man, owing nothing to anyone, neither obligation, nor service, nor help. It was as if he had thoughts of coming back into the flock of human beings, after roaming alone in the desert...as if he were beginning to feel regret that he had not followed the normal human trend, regular work, marriage and the founding of a family. But the time had not yet come for him to lay down his arms and to find normal human peace.......

To be continued...