By Hilary Macaskill The poet who still gets fan mail 125 years after his death
APOSTBOX is an unexpected find d in a cemeceme tery. Painted ed gold, the metal box displays a portrait of the he 19th Century poet Arthur ur Rimbaud, who is buriedd here at Charleville. The postbox was installed because people write to him. Even now.
The French Ardennes, close to the Belgian border, celebrate the young poet, who died 125 years ago this month. Although Rimbaud’s writing career lasted only five years, his s influence stretches across ss the arts, from Picasso to Bob Dylan, who, when introtroduced to his writing, saidd that ‘the bells went off’.
Mr Tambourine Man alludes udes to Le Bateau Ivre (Drunken Boat), often considered Rimbaud’s best work. Rimbaud stopped writing at 21, eventually becoming a trader in Ethiopia, but still people come to pay homage. We were, in a way, also doing that. Half the appeal was the landscape of the Ardennes – the thickly wooded region just a three-hour drive from Calais – but I also wanted to know more about this charismatic poet.
In the house where Rimbaud spent his adolescent years, now La Maison d’Ailleurs (the House of Elsewhere), the curator produced two boxes crammed with recent post, including stapled sheets of poems, photos, and a T-shirt. These items are not on show but the more beautiful letters are read during poetry events.
Perhaps his adventurous spirit is the attraction: Rimbaud ran away three times as a teenager from the town he hated. It’s hard to reconcile this dislike with today’s elegant Charleville, founded in 1606 by Charles, Duke of Mantua. Its centrepiece is the mag-
nific nificent Place Ducale, edged by arcades and fine tow townhouses. It’s well used – this month it is given over to stalls of local products including pâté and embroidery. When we were there, a family play day was in full swing, with oversized games of Scrabble and chess clustered around a great carousel.
Our guide, Elisabeth, took us to Rimbaud’s homes, telling us about the repressive mother he dubbed ‘the mouth of darkness’, but also to the Place Winston Churchill, which is the home of the Puppetry Institute – 20 students a year enlist for the diploma course. And the biennial World Puppet Theatre Festival is held in Charleville.
The presence of the young poet is everywhere, from the hairdresser bearing his name to Le Table d’Arthur, the restaurant opposite his birthplace. The glass facade of the hotel Le Dormeur du Val, named after his poem, is covered with handwritten lines of poetry, as are the walls inside this quirky former printing factory.
The one memorial to him is a humble bust in the ‘mean little lawns’, as he described the station square, facing the Cafe de l’Univers, where, on return visits, Rimbaud would meet friends.
By the river, on Quai Arthur Rimbaud, there are 18 silver chairs in groups, each engraved with a line from his writing – ‘I believe I am in hell, and so I am there’; ‘Life is the farce conducted by all’ – each echoed by lines from current poets.
ONE thing I’d known about Rimbaud was that he lived briefly in Camden Town, North London, with fellow poet Paul Verlaine. Their stormy relationship ended in Brussels with Verlaine shooting Rimbaud in the hand.
Despite this, they are for ever linked – there is, of course, a Rimbaud-Verlaine route in the Ardennes. This route took us along quiet, sun-dappled roads between hillsides blanketed with an autumn tapestry of rust-reds and golden-browns and past orchards to Roche, where Rimbaud would stay at his mother’s farmhouse, now long gone.
We also went to nearby Voncq to see the station from which he often started his journeys. The old tracks, smothered in weeds, are still there, and so is a weathered copper sculpture mounted on a trunk, displaying names of places that Rimbaud visited.
Our journey ended at the Musee Verlaine at Juniville, in what was Le Lion d’Or, Verlaine’s favoured drinking place. Invitingly, the door stood open, leading into a time capsule – the fireplace, table and grandfather clock as they were in Verlaine’s day.
But the Ardennes can boast of more than poets, including the largest fortress in Europe at Sedan, where we stayed at the Hotel Le Chateau Fort.
On another day, we climbed to the viewpoint at Montherme to see Le Boucle de Meuse, the U-shaped loop of the river, visited fortified churches and the starshaped town of Rocroi.
And this region is famous for its food. We’d eaten well but the best came last, at Signy-l’Abbaye, an unassuming village with an outstanding restaurant and an equally memorable guesthouse, the 18th Century La Petite Abbaye. One day we headed across the road to Auberge de l’Abbaye, which has been in the same family for seven generations. The husband of the current owner has an organic farm, which accounted for the succulence of the lamb. An excellent finale.