A café in Paris; 29th February, 1892.

It is early evening and the rather squalid café is not very full. Presently Verlaine enters. He is now 47, but looks much older, a derelict carnal hulk. His clothes are correct, much as they were in the first scene of the play, but worn and shabby. He has a walking-stick, and limps heavily, dragging his left leg behind him. He is accompanied by Eugénie Krantz, who is about fifty and a semi-retired prostitute. Her accent sounds like a crude parody of Rimbaud’s.

Verlaine   Evening.

A few muttered replies. He and Eugénie sit at one of the tables.

Absinthe, please. Two.

The Barman nods, pours drinks behind the bar.

God, I’m tired.

Eugénie   (sniggers) Not surprised.

Verlaine   You’re beautiful, Eugénie.

Eugénie   I know. (She laughs raucously.)

Verlaine   Don’t let anyone tell you different. If I think you’re beautiful, then you’re beautiful.

The Barman brings the drinks.

Barman   Someone been in to see you this afternoon, M. Verlaine.

Verlaine   Who?

Barman   A young lady. She didn’t leave her name.

Verlaine   A young lady?

Barman   Well, in her thirties, I suppose. She seemed very keen to see you, so I said you’d be sure to be in later, and she said she’d come back. She said it was quite important.

Verlaine   Thanks.

Just a minute … What did she look like?

Barman   Oh, not bad, monsieur, not bad.

Verlaine   Thanks.

Eugénie   Who is it?

Verlaine   What?

Eugénie   Who is it?

Verlaine   How should I know?

Eugénie   It can’t be Esther, it’s too young for her. So it must be someone else.

Verlaine   I told you I haven’t seen Esther since I came out of hospital.

Eugénie   You told me! Who is it?

Verlaine   I don’t know.

It must be some business matter.

Eugénie   Business, eh?

Verlaine   Yes. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me talk to her alone when she comes.

Eugénie   Oh, charming, that is. Lovely. I’m supposed to go and sit on my own, am I, while you talk to your new girlfriends?

Verlaine   I promise you, I don’t know who it is, and if it’s a business matter, I’d rather talk to her alone.

Eugénie   (a threat) I shall go and talk to that gentleman over there.

Verlaine   Well, you must do as you like.

Eugénie   Perhaps he’ll turn out a bit more respectful than you are.

Verlaine   Two more, please.

Can you let me have some money, please?

Eugénie   Eh?

Verlaine   I haven’t any money on me.

Eugénie   Well, don’t ask me for money.

Verlaine   Look, Eugénie, I’m not feeling very well, and I don’t want to argue with you. Now will you kindly give me some money.

Eugénie   You haven’t done any work today.

Verlaine   I haven’t been feeling very well.

Eugénie   Well, if you don’t do any work, you can’t expect to be paid.

Verlaine   Look, it’s my money.

Eugénie   It wouldn’t be much longer if I let you get your hands on it.

Verlaine   I just want a few …

Eugénie   No.

Verlaine   Now, listen, Eugénie, if you don’t give me some money at once, there’ll be trouble, do you understand?

Eugénie   I haven’t got any money with me. So you’ll have to do without, won’t you?

Verlaine   You’re making me very angry.

Eugénie   Anyway, here comes your girl-friend, by the look of it. So I’ll be leaving you. (She gets up, then leans forward and speaks in a venomous whisper.) And if you don’t come back tonight, you’ll find your things in the street.

Isabelle   (tentatively) M. Verlaine?

Verlaine   At your service, mademoiselle.

Isabelle   I am Isabelle Rimbaud.

Verlaine   Pardon? (He sinks into his chair.)

Isabelle   I am Isabelle Rimbaud. I am M. Arthur Rimbaud’s sister.

Verlaine   Of course, er, of course, please sit down, mademoiselle. You must excuse me for being so rude, but I find it difficult to stand.

I heard, we heard the tragic news a couple of months ago. I could hardly believe it, he was so young. And then, he’d been reported dead before, you know, earlier. I was deeply … affected by his death, although I hadn’t seen him for so long.

Isabelle   I didn’t know whether you’d heard.

Verlaine   Is it true … is it true he had to have his leg amputated?

Isabelle   Yes.

I’ll get straight to the point, M. Verlaine, I don’t have very much time.

Verlaine   You look a bit like him, you know. Your eyes … are not unlike his.

Isabelle   So I’ve been told.

Verlaine   Would you like a drink?

Isabelle   No thank you very much. It’s really a business matter I want to discuss with you. M. Vanier said you might be able to help me.

Verlaine   Well, I’ll do what I can.

Isabelle   On the day my brother died, a volume of his poems was published in Paris, wasn’t it?

Verlaine   You mean The Reliquary?

Isabelle   That’s right. The publication was completely unauthorized, and there was an anonymous preface full of the most outrageous and libellous statements, which claimed to be a biography of my brother. My mother and I were very upset by it.

Verlaine   Yes, well, er, I believe M. Genonceaux is the man you should see about this. He’s the editor.

Isabelle   I know. I haven’t been able to get hold of M. Genonceaux.

Verlaine   Anyway, the book’s now been withdrawn from circulation.

Isabelle   I know. But my mother and I are anxious to prevent anything like this from happening again. And M. Vanier said you might be able to help us.

Verlaine   I? How?

Isabelle   Well, I understand you have a large number of my brother’s manuscripts.

Verlaine   I have … some, yes.

Isabelle   My mother and I would be very grateful if you’d return them.

Verlaine   I’ve always … used the utmost discretion in everything concerning your brother. I think I can say that I’ve always defended his interests. Since his name began to be well known, various newspapers and magazines have printed forgeries, you know, and I’ve made myself responsible for putting a stop to it and making sure that everything that comes out under his name is his work. I’m quite fanatical about it, it’s very important to me. We did our best work when we were together, you know, both of us. Since then, as far as I’m concerned, it’s all been just one long footnote.

Isabelle   I didn’t know his name was all that well known.

Verlaine   Oh, yes.

Isabelle   That makes it even more vital that we collect up all his manuscripts. Perhaps I should explain our intentions to you. Did you know he was converted before he died?

Verlaine   Converted?

Isabelle   Yes. I reasoned with him and prayed for him for weeks while he was ill and about a fortnight before he died, he asked to be confessed. After that, we prayed together every day, and the chaplain said that he had never encountered faith as strong as Arthur’s. Do you know, in spite of the tragic circumstances, the day Arthur asked for the chaplain was one of the happiest of my life.

Verlaine   So he took the last Sacraments?

Isabelle   No, unfortunately they weren’t able to give him communion, because he couldn’t keep anything down, and they were afraid there might be an involuntary sacrilege. But I know his soul was saved.

Verlaine   (without irony) That must be a great comfort.

Isabelle   Yes. Anyway, you’ll appreciate now how important it is for my mother and I to get hold of his writings.

Verlaine   Er …?

Isabelle   The point is, M. Verlaine, to speak frankly, a number of the poems he wrote in extreme youth were rather … indecent, and in some cases even profane. He would never have wished to be remembered for them. My mother and I plan to as it were separate the wheat from the tares, and destroy those of his works which we feel he would have destroyed himself.

Verlaine   I see.

Isabelle   We were amazed, in fact, that the poems in The Reliquary were thought to be worthy of publication. We supposed that they could only have been published for motives of profit. I’d be very interested to know who pocketed the author’s royalties.

Verlaine   (guiltily) Yes … well, er, I couldn’t tell you.

Isabelle   Here’s my mother’s card. Perhaps you could send the manuscripts to this address.

Verlaine   As a matter of fact, Vanier and I were planning an edition of Rimbaud’s complete works.

Isabelle   Yes, M. Vanier told me.

Verlaine   Well, don’t you think that there’s … a place for the works you mentioned in our edition? I mean, surely his conversion becomes even more striking if it’s seen against … some of the things he wrote when he was young.

Isabelle   I’m sure these considerations will be borne in mind.

Verlaine   Yes, yes, of course …

Isabelle   I wonder if you could give us your address, so that I can get in touch with you if it’s necessary.

Verlaine   Well, I … don’t really have an address, mademoiselle. I spend a lot of time in hospital, you see, and my address seems to … change quite often.

Isabelle   I see. Well, I think that’s about all, M. Verlaine.

Verlaine   It occurs to me, that if you want Rimbaud’s manuscripts, my wife might be able to help you.

Isabelle   Your wife?

Verlaine   Yes. I still think of her as my wife, although I’m told she’s taken advantage of the Gospel according to the Civil Service, and married someone else. I haven’t seen her since before … for about twenty years. I spent years trying to get her to send me Rimbaud’s manuscripts and letters.

Isabelle   Yes. Thank you.

Verlaine   She’s a spiteful and wicked woman. Do you know that my son will be twenty-one this year, and I haven’t seen him since he was eight?

Isabelle   I think I should be going, M. Verlaine, I’d like to get back to my hotel before it gets dark.

Verlaine   Wait. Please. Just a minute. I wonder if you could, before you go, just tell me something about … your brother. You see, the last time I saw him, in Stuttgart, must have been about seventeen years ago, when he was over there learning German. After that, the reports were so vague. We heard he was in Abyssinia, we heard he was dead, and later that he was alive, and all kinds of rumours. I wonder if you could just … fill in the details a little, that’s all.

Isabelle   I don’t know that there’s very much to tell. He travelled. He was a building consultant in Cyprus for some time, then he moved on to Aden and got a job with a trading firm. He established a new depot for them in Abyssinia about five years ago, which he managed and ran himself.

Verlaine   But how did he die?

Isabelle   He had a tumour on his knee.

Verlaine   That’s very strange.

Isabelle   Why?

Verlaine   Because that’s what I have, a … tumour on my knee.

Isabelle   It would have been all right if he’d done something about it sooner, if he hadn’t been so conscientious about his work. There was no doctor there, but he insisted on staying until the pain became unbearable. After that, it took him two months to get back to Marseilles, and they amputated his leg … but by that time it was too late to do anything for him.

Verlaine   How terrible.

Isabelle   In fact, after the operation it was worse. They tried to fit him with a wooden leg, but he couldn’t manage it. They’d had to amputate too high and the stump couldn’t take the weight. He said, after the operation, he kept saying, that if he’d known what it was going to be like, he’d never have let them amputate. He hated the hospital so much, that at the end of July he left and came home.

Verlaine   Was he alone in Marseilles?

Isabelle   Oh yes. Mother went down for the operation, but she couldn’t afford to stay with him, because it was getting near to harvest-time.

When he got home things weren’t too bad at first, but before long he lost the use of his right arm, and the pain spread and increased. The doctor gave him drugs to stop the pain, and he became delirious. I remember one night, I was woken up by a terrible crash from his room. I rushed up there and found my brother lying face down on the floor, naked. He told me he had opened his eyes and it was dawn, and time to go, to lead his caravan of ivory and musk to the coast. He said, he kept saying, that he wanted to go back to the sun, and that the sun would heal him, and eventually he left for Marseilles and I went with him. He intended to travel on from there to Aden, but when he got there he was too ill, and he went back into hospital. The paralysis gradually spread, and a large tumour appeared on the inside of his stump. I think God kept him alive long enough to repent, so that he could be saved.

Verlaine   Yes. The last time we met, in Stuttgart, we spoke of religion. I had just been converted, and I tried very hard to convince him of the truth. Perhaps I helped him in some small way.

Verlaine   Did he … I don’t suppose he ever mentioned me?

Isabelle   No.

Verlaine   It was a long time ago.

Isabelle   It’s getting dark. I must go.

Verlaine   But still …

Isabelle   Good-bye, M. Verlaine.

Verlaine   Won’t you let me see you to your hotel?

Isabelle   No, it’s quite all right.

Verlaine   Are you sure?

Isabelle   (formally) It was an honour to meet such a distinguished poet.

Verlaine   It was a great pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle.

Isabelle   You have mother’s card there, don’t you? Don’t forget to send us Arthur’s manuscripts.

Verlaine   No.

Isabelle   Good-bye, monsieur.

Verlaine   Good night.

Eugénie? Where are you?

Absinthe. Two, please.

It was a long time ago. But I remember the first time I saw him. That evening in the Mautés’ main room. When we walked in, he was standing with his back to us, looking out of the window. He turned round and spoke, and then I saw him, and I was amazed how beautiful he was. He was sixteen.
   Since he died I see him every night. My great and radiant sin.

Tell me if you love me.

Rimbaud   You know I’m very fond of you. We’ve been very happy sometimes.

Do you love me?

Verlaine   Yes.

Rimbaud   Then put your hands on the table.

Verlaine   What?

Rimbaud   Put your hands on the table.

Palm upwards.

Verlaine   We were always happy. Always. I remember.

Eugénie?
   What I love in old, sad flesh is the youth which whispers around it. I love its memories of youth.
   I remember our first summer, how happy it was, the happiest time of my life. Wandering across Belgium, eating turnips and huddling in ditches. He’s not dead, he’s trapped and living inside me. As long as I live, he has some kind of flickering and limited life. It’s always the same words and the same gestures – the same images: I walk behind him across a steep ploughed field; I sit, talking to him in a darkening room, until I can barely see his profile and his expressive hand; I lie in bed at dawn and watch him sleeping and see how nervously his hand brushes at his cheek. I remember him of an evening and he lives.
   Absinthe.
   Are you there? Eugénie? Are you there?