Rimbaud Toward the End
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Toward the end of Rimbaud's life, newspaper rumors of his whereabouts became less untrue. In Le Décadent in 1889:
"The news I have of Arthur Rimbaud dates from last May. At that time, curious to know what had become of the Poet, whether he was dead, engineer or king of the savages, I wrote to M. de Gasparin (sic), consul of France in Aden where I had learned that Arthur Rimbaud had passed. M. de Gasparin answered me that Rimbaud was perfectly alive, that he was a commercial traveler (?), residing in Aden and, at the time when I wrote, left for an expedition in Choa; that, moreover, if I had any communication to make to Rimbaud, I had only to address my letter to the Consulate, he himself then undertook to send it to its destination."
In La Wallonie, another sighting, on the right continent but in the wrong country:
"A most unexpected piece of news: Mr. Arthur Raimbaud [sic] has been found. He is currently in Morocco, preparing for the most extraordinary expedition. Certain information has been sent to us from Tangier, and we hope to be able to publish complete information next month."
Nothing was published the next month. But finally in 1891, La France Moderne proclaimed:
"This time we’ve really got it! We know where Arthur Rimbaud is, the great Rimbaud, the true Rimbaud, the Rimbaud of the Illuminations. This is no decadent hoax. We affirm that we know the abode of the famous fugitive."
Unfortunately, it was too late. Rimbaud's death in November provided the first definitively true news report in the Courrier des Ardennes:
"Arthur Rimbaud, one of the most prominent poets of the pleiad which, around 1872, made up the contemporary Parnassus, was buried a few days ago in the cemetery of Charleville. For about fifteen years we had lost track of this comrade, difficult to follow; his wandering mood and his restless spirit pushing him through Europe, of which he knew all the languages, always tired and without ever finding where to rest."
In a letter, Rimbaud describes the health issues which drove him back to France to die.
"All of this started with a hammer blow (so to speak) beneath the kneecap, which then banged away lightly all the time. Then the swelling of the veins around the knee, which made me suspect varicose veins. I continued to walk and work, more than ever, believing all I needed was a little air. The pain inside the knee worsened. It felt as though a nail were being pounded in with each step. —I continued to walk, but with more pain; I felt crippled every time I mounted or dismounted a horse. —The upper part of the knee swelled up, the kneecap swelled up, the back of the knee too, circulation became painful, and the pain ran along the nerves from my ankle to my hips. —I no longer walked without limping badly and felt steadily worse, but I still had a lot of work to do, obviously. —So I started to wear my leg bandaged from top to bottom, to rub it, bathe it, etc., without improvement. I lost my appetite. A dogged insomnia gripped me. I weakened and lost weight. —Toward March 15, I took to my bed to get off my feet. I put a bed between my till, my desk, and a window through which I could see my scales at the edge of the courtyard, and I hired a group of workers to ensure that work continued unimpeded, while myself remaining laid out to rest my sick leg. Day by day, ... the whole leg became completely stiff; in a week, I couldn’t get anywhere except by dragging myself there….
"By the end of March, I resolved to leave. I liquidated everything at a loss. As the stiffness and the pain kept me from using a mule or even a camel, I had a stretcher made, covered in a curtain, which sixteen men carried to Zeila in two weeks’ time…. I arrived in Zeila exhausted, paralyzed. I only rested there for four hours, when a steamboat left for Aden. Tossed on deck on my stretcher, I suffered through three days at sea without food. In Aden, another lowering of my stretcher. I then spent a few days chez M. Tian to settle our affairs and left for the hospital, where the English doctor, after two weeks, advised me to leave for Europe."
In great pain, and sometimes in hallucination under the influence of opium taken to dull the pain, Rimbaud was cared for by his sister Isabelle, who recorded an account of his final days.
"He mixes everything up — but somehow artfully. We are in Harar, we are always leaving for Aden. We must find camels, organize the caravan. He walks very easily with his new artificial leg, we ride out together on fine mules with rich harnesses. Then he must work, do the accounts, write his letters. Quick, quick, they are waiting for us. We must pack up our bags and go. Why has he been left to sleep so long? Why don’t I help him to get dressed? What will people say if we don’t arrive on the appointed day? No one will trust his word any more. No one will have faith in him any more. And he starts to weep and to complain at my clumsiness and negligence, because I am always there with him, and it is my duty to make all the preparations.
"For some days he lived in a strange waking dream. This illuminated his memory and provoked in him an irresistible desire to confide. The doors and the shutters hermetically sealed, all the lights and lamps and candles lit, to the soft and soothing sound of a little hurdy-gurdy, he went back over his life, evoked his memories of childhood, developed his intimate thoughts, discussed future plans and projects. His soft, slow voice took on an accent of penetrating beauty. He often mingled his sentences with Oriental phrases and even with expressions borrowed from other European languages; but the whole very clear and comprehensible."
His last writing was dictated to his sister shortly before he died in the hospital in Marseilles:
ONE LOT: A SINGLE TUSK
ONE LOT: TWO TUSKS
ONE LOT: THREE TUSKS
ONE LOT: FOUR TUSKS
ONE LOT: TWO TUSKS
To the Director
Dear Sir:
I have come to enquire if I have anything left on account with you. I wish to change today my booking on this ship whose name I don’t even know, but anyway it must be the ship from Aphinar. There are shipping lines going all over the place, but helpless and unhappy as I am, I can’t find a single one — the first dog you meet in the street will tell you this. Send me the prices of the ship from Aphinar to Suez. I am completely paralysed, so I wish to embark in good time. Please let me know when I should be carried aboard.
"The news I have of Arthur Rimbaud dates from last May. At that time, curious to know what had become of the Poet, whether he was dead, engineer or king of the savages, I wrote to M. de Gasparin (sic), consul of France in Aden where I had learned that Arthur Rimbaud had passed. M. de Gasparin answered me that Rimbaud was perfectly alive, that he was a commercial traveler (?), residing in Aden and, at the time when I wrote, left for an expedition in Choa; that, moreover, if I had any communication to make to Rimbaud, I had only to address my letter to the Consulate, he himself then undertook to send it to its destination."
In La Wallonie, another sighting, on the right continent but in the wrong country:
"A most unexpected piece of news: Mr. Arthur Raimbaud [sic] has been found. He is currently in Morocco, preparing for the most extraordinary expedition. Certain information has been sent to us from Tangier, and we hope to be able to publish complete information next month."
Nothing was published the next month. But finally in 1891, La France Moderne proclaimed:
"This time we’ve really got it! We know where Arthur Rimbaud is, the great Rimbaud, the true Rimbaud, the Rimbaud of the Illuminations. This is no decadent hoax. We affirm that we know the abode of the famous fugitive."
Unfortunately, it was too late. Rimbaud's death in November provided the first definitively true news report in the Courrier des Ardennes:
"Arthur Rimbaud, one of the most prominent poets of the pleiad which, around 1872, made up the contemporary Parnassus, was buried a few days ago in the cemetery of Charleville. For about fifteen years we had lost track of this comrade, difficult to follow; his wandering mood and his restless spirit pushing him through Europe, of which he knew all the languages, always tired and without ever finding where to rest."
In a letter, Rimbaud describes the health issues which drove him back to France to die.
"All of this started with a hammer blow (so to speak) beneath the kneecap, which then banged away lightly all the time. Then the swelling of the veins around the knee, which made me suspect varicose veins. I continued to walk and work, more than ever, believing all I needed was a little air. The pain inside the knee worsened. It felt as though a nail were being pounded in with each step. —I continued to walk, but with more pain; I felt crippled every time I mounted or dismounted a horse. —The upper part of the knee swelled up, the kneecap swelled up, the back of the knee too, circulation became painful, and the pain ran along the nerves from my ankle to my hips. —I no longer walked without limping badly and felt steadily worse, but I still had a lot of work to do, obviously. —So I started to wear my leg bandaged from top to bottom, to rub it, bathe it, etc., without improvement. I lost my appetite. A dogged insomnia gripped me. I weakened and lost weight. —Toward March 15, I took to my bed to get off my feet. I put a bed between my till, my desk, and a window through which I could see my scales at the edge of the courtyard, and I hired a group of workers to ensure that work continued unimpeded, while myself remaining laid out to rest my sick leg. Day by day, ... the whole leg became completely stiff; in a week, I couldn’t get anywhere except by dragging myself there….
"By the end of March, I resolved to leave. I liquidated everything at a loss. As the stiffness and the pain kept me from using a mule or even a camel, I had a stretcher made, covered in a curtain, which sixteen men carried to Zeila in two weeks’ time…. I arrived in Zeila exhausted, paralyzed. I only rested there for four hours, when a steamboat left for Aden. Tossed on deck on my stretcher, I suffered through three days at sea without food. In Aden, another lowering of my stretcher. I then spent a few days chez M. Tian to settle our affairs and left for the hospital, where the English doctor, after two weeks, advised me to leave for Europe."
In great pain, and sometimes in hallucination under the influence of opium taken to dull the pain, Rimbaud was cared for by his sister Isabelle, who recorded an account of his final days.
"He mixes everything up — but somehow artfully. We are in Harar, we are always leaving for Aden. We must find camels, organize the caravan. He walks very easily with his new artificial leg, we ride out together on fine mules with rich harnesses. Then he must work, do the accounts, write his letters. Quick, quick, they are waiting for us. We must pack up our bags and go. Why has he been left to sleep so long? Why don’t I help him to get dressed? What will people say if we don’t arrive on the appointed day? No one will trust his word any more. No one will have faith in him any more. And he starts to weep and to complain at my clumsiness and negligence, because I am always there with him, and it is my duty to make all the preparations.
"For some days he lived in a strange waking dream. This illuminated his memory and provoked in him an irresistible desire to confide. The doors and the shutters hermetically sealed, all the lights and lamps and candles lit, to the soft and soothing sound of a little hurdy-gurdy, he went back over his life, evoked his memories of childhood, developed his intimate thoughts, discussed future plans and projects. His soft, slow voice took on an accent of penetrating beauty. He often mingled his sentences with Oriental phrases and even with expressions borrowed from other European languages; but the whole very clear and comprehensible."
His last writing was dictated to his sister shortly before he died in the hospital in Marseilles:
ONE LOT: A SINGLE TUSK
ONE LOT: TWO TUSKS
ONE LOT: THREE TUSKS
ONE LOT: FOUR TUSKS
ONE LOT: TWO TUSKS
To the Director
Dear Sir:
I have come to enquire if I have anything left on account with you. I wish to change today my booking on this ship whose name I don’t even know, but anyway it must be the ship from Aphinar. There are shipping lines going all over the place, but helpless and unhappy as I am, I can’t find a single one — the first dog you meet in the street will tell you this. Send me the prices of the ship from Aphinar to Suez. I am completely paralysed, so I wish to embark in good time. Please let me know when I should be carried aboard.
