The Day on Fire Read online

  JAMES RAMSEY ULLMAN

  THE DAY ON FIRE

  A NOVEL SUGGESTED BY THE LIFE OF ARTHUR RIMBAUD

  VALANCOURT BOOKS

  The Day on Fire by James Ramsey Ullman Originally published by World Publishing Company in 1958

  First Valancourt Books edition 2016

  Copyright © 1958 by James Ramsey Ullman Renewed 1986 by Marian Ullman

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 , the copying, scanning, uploading, and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.

  Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia http://www.valancourtbooks .com

  Cover by Henry Petrides

  FOREWORD

  Jean-Nicolas-Arthur Rimbaud was born in 1854 in Charleville, in the Ardennes country of northern France, and died in 1 891 in Marseilles. For the first fifteen years of his life he was child and schoolboy in his native provincial town. For the next four—

  and four only—he was, simultaneously, a poet of genius, a visionary idealist, and a deliberate wallower in the gutters of depravity perhaps unmatched in all human experience. For the next six, now through forever with both writing and debauch, he was a vagabond wanderer through Europe and Asia. And for the last twelve, until a few months preceding his death, he was a trader, explorer, gunrunner (and also, probably, slaver), along the Red Sea coasts and in the section of northeast Africa known then as Abyssinia and today as Ethiopia.

  As stated on the title page, this story has been suggested by his life. In broad outline it follows the known pattern of Rimbaud’s career, but in most of its details it is fictional, and I have therefore given fictional names to all characters, with the exception of a few historical personages—of whom the only one to play an important role is the Emperor Menelik of Abyssinia. Some, in conception and presentation, are very close to their real-life

  counterparts: e.g., Claude Morel to Arthur Rimbaud himself, the Widow Morel to Rimbaud’s mother, Maurice Druard to Paul Verlaine.

  Others, including most of the secondary characters, derive more indirectly from actual persons. And a few are wholly invented.

  Most important among these last is Germaine Lautier, whom I have used to personify “the girl with the violet eyes,” whom Rimbaud knew in his dreams, forever sought, and never found.

  So, too, do the scenes, incidents, and situations of my story range from the largely factual to the entirely imagined: the factual predominating in the earlier part, for which Rimbaud’s life is well documented—though even here there is much rearrangement of time, place, and event—and the imagined in the later part, when he had all but vanished from the Western world.

  As for Claude Morel’s writings, they are in part actually Rimbaud’s in translation (for which I make grateful acknowledgment to Louise Varese and J. Norman Cameron), and in part my own paraphrase. And Morel’s thoughts, conversations, and correspondence are a composite of the factual and fictional—but with the imagined here, again, predominating. Indeed, the blend exists in almost every page and paragraph of the book.

  Arthur Rimbaud existed. Claude Morel did not. In my own mind, however, now that my story is written, I can scarcely tell where the one ends and the other begins. And my hope is that this does not matter and is as it should be; that though I have fictionized I have not falsified; that though I have manipulated outward fact to my purpose I have held tight to inward truth.

  For the truth, the inward core, of Rimbaud’s life is not something to be held lightly, but a thing as bright and precious as, in another way, it is appalling . . . a truth, I believe, that holds meaning and value for our time no less than for his own . . . indeed, for all times, as long as men are men; as long as the rest of us, too, each of us, all of us—if in less spectacular degree—have our nights alone and our days on fire, our seasons in hell and our hope of heaven.

  J. R. U.

  New York

  February 1958

  AND A NOTE

  An ugly word is used in this book: the word nigger . And it is used only after much reflection and substitute-seeking, in the conviction that, for the purpose required, it is the only right word. Rimbaud, in his writings and conversations, used the French word nègre , which today is usually translated—and properly so—as Negro . But it must be remembered that he used it at a time, almost a century ago, when the Western world’s concept of a black man was very different from what it is today. And the word Negro

  has a formality and propriety to it which seem to me to vitiate completely the symbolic strength and intensity of Rimbaud’s meaning.

  So I have used the ugly word: not as a man among my fellow men, but as a writer trying to render a true meaning in its proper time and context. To say that I intend no offense is too mild a statement. Let me say, rather, that I hope with all my heart that no offense is taken.

  My eternal soul,

  Redeem your promise,

  In spite of the night alone

  And the day on fire.

  Mon âme éternelle,

  Observe ton voeu,

  Malgré la nuit seule

  Et le jour en feu.

  Rimbaud

  PART I: THE POSSESSED

  “ I had been damned by the rainbow .”

  1

  Today they were all wearing blue serge suits.

  Usually it was only Claude. Day after day, year after year, it had been only Claude; the others in old smocks, vests, work shirts, whatever they laid their hands on when they got up in the morning; he alone in serge and starched collar, black stockings and black shoes. “ Le beau gosse ,” they had once called him.

  “Pretty boy. Mama’s darling.” But that was before they had learned that his small fists could hit and his shined shoes could kick. Or that his help with homework made the difference between honors and failure.

  And now, today, they were all mamas’ darlings. All in serge and starch, with scrubbed faces and slicked hair. Even Pierre Berthoud, who loomed over the tallest teacher and was sprouting whiskers; even Henri Clauson, who, rumor had it, bathed only in cow dung and assembled his clothes from the town dump. In the rear of the room were the mamas themselves, with a scattering of fathers and brothers, sisters and aunts. The females looked proud. The males looked bored. All looked hot. The only one who would not have looked hot was the mama of the original mama’s

  darling, who had no time for such trivia as physical discomforts.

  But the Widow Morel had also not had the time to be there.

  It was the final day of the term—prize day—for the next-to-last form of the Lycée de Cambon. Monsieur Izard, the headmaster, and Monsieur Chariol, the class teacher, were on the platform, and the headmaster was speaking. He had, indeed, been speaking for some twenty minutes, and for each of them the temperature had seemed to increase by one degree centigrade. Sweat trickled into the starched collars. Eyes glazed. When at last the speech ended the applause was limp and damp.

  “And now—” Monsieur Izard nodded to Monsieur Chariol, and Monsieur Chariol took from a table a pile of silvered paper wreaths. “Now,” said the headmaster, “it is time to make the term awards for achievement.” He produced a slip of paper and adjusted his pince-nez. “For excellence in mathematics”—a brief pause for effect—“Louis Carnot.”

  A boy rose, went to the platform, and received a handshake and wreath. In the rear, a few pairs of hands applauded, less limply.

  “For excellence in theoretical and applied science—Georges Vuiton.”

  The procedure was repeated.

  Monsieur Izard put away the slip of paper. There were five wreaths left. “For excellence in French literature,” he announced, “—for excellence in English, excellence in Latin, excellence in Greek, excellence in medieval and modern history—”

  He smiled. “As time goes by, this has become rather a habit. . . . It is my pleasure to award these classic laurels to Claude Morel.”

  Claude rose and went forward. At fifteen, he was the youngest in the class. And the smallest. Most of the others, in their middle and late teens, were already far along in adolescence; big-boned, raw, and awkward; half boys and half men. But there was no man in Claude yet. There seemed less boy than child. His face was soft, oval, fine-featured; his hair light and silken; and his eyes were wide and unshadowed, the whites very white, the blue very blue. A most immature fifteen, one would have judged—until he moved—and then, strangely, the impression changed. For his bearing was wholly composed. His movements were poised and sure. As he passed between his classmates, mounted the platform and stood before them, it was suddenly he who seemed the adult, and they the children.

  Monsieur Izard shook his hand and put a wreath on his head. “Ho, ho, there are so many they would not all balance,” he said, chuckling. Then, addressing the room; “We shall now hear the class oration from our honor student.”

  Claude faced the room. He bowed gravely. He began to speak: “S

  alvete , O magistri honorati , hospites augusti , amici lectissimi . Insigne honoris mihi datis quod permittitis est ego in vestram praesentiam hoc die felici veniam . Pro vestro summo beneficio , gratus sum . . .”

  He stood erect but at ease. His face, under the leaves, was blandly calm, and the Latin flowed from his lips as if it had been his daily language. Lookin
g down at his audience, in their sweat and boredom, his eyes glinted with mockery.

  The boys shuffled out. Monsieur Izard greeted parents. Monsieur Chariol, the class teacher, put a hand on Claude’s shoulder. “My little monster of erudition,” he said affectionately.

  Monsieur Chariol was young—a mere twenty-four—with a slender figure and dark sensitive face. And he was not greatly given to smiling. Indeed, after three years in this backwater school, he had often thought grimly, he would probably have ceased altogether—had it not been for this one pupil fate had granted him. For Claude Morel was that rare and precious bird of which all teachers dream but seldom encounter: the true student: the one among the hundreds who almost compensated for the drudgery, the frustration, the gawking cretins, the starvation salary, the loneliness and hopelessness of a profession that led to nowhere on a grinding treadmill. Try to give to the others, and they took nothing. They yawned. They dozed. But give to this one, and he took it all; took it and gave it back, brighter, fresher, fuller than it had been before. Albert Chariol pressed his fingers into Claude’s shoulder. “I am proud of you, boy,” he said.

  “Thank you, mon maître .”

  “You have made it a happy year for me.”

  Claude looked up at him, and there was no longer mockery in his eyes. “And you have made it happy for me,” he answered.

  Outside there was a confusion of boys, families, hellos, goodbyes. Henri Clauson ripped off his jacket with a whoop. Two others pounded each other in a delirium of liberation.

  “ S’il vous plaît! S’il vous plaît! ” shrilled Monsieur Izard.

  Michel Favre came up to Claude. He too was a small boy, but broad and sturdy, with a freckled stub of a nose and black imp’s eyes, and he was Claude’s closest friend in the class, if he could be said to have had one.

  “No mother?” he asked.

  Claude shook his head. “She wouldn’t leave the store.”

  “Mine’s not here either. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Anywhere. But away from here—fast.”

  Then the crowd and the school were gone. They walked down the dusty summer street, kicking stones.

  “Where are your wreaths?” Michel asked.

  “I found a wastebasket.”

  “Won’t your mother want to see them?”

  “She’d just say, ‘Why isn’t the silver real?’ ”

  Michel picked up a stone and threw it at a tree. “The hell with wreaths,” he said. “The hell with school and the hell with mothers. It’s vacation. Let’s celebrate!”

  “How?”

  “Let’s—let’s—” Michel thought it over. “I’ve got it: girls!”

  “What do you mean, girls?”

  “We get two—for tonight.” Michel became excited. “Yes, look, listen—There’s one of those traveling carnivals playing now over in Antimes. It’s just an hour’s walk, so after supper we get the girls and—”

  “What girls?” said Claude.

  “Louise Croz for me. Mimi Rouger for you. They’ll come: I know they will. Their parents let them do anything. . . . Look, Louise lives right near here. Let’s go now and talk to her, and she’ll talk to Mimi, and we’ll meet them out on the road about seven, and. . . . What’s the matter, you don’t want to?”

  “I—I don’t know them.”

  “Sure you know them. You’ve seen them all over town. Just last week out in the park, when Jacques Brun and I were with them—

  remember?—and then you came by and—”

  “—said hello.”

  “All right: they said hello back, didn’t they? They smiled.”

  “But—”

  “And when you’d gone do you know what they said? Louise said,

  ‘What’s the matter with that one? He’s scared of girls.’ And Mimi said, ‘Yes; he’s cute, though.’ ”

  “Cute,” said Claude.

  “That’s the way girls talk. She likes you.”

  “How can she like me if she doesn’t know me?”

  “Well then, she’d like to like you. Give her a chance. . . .

  Look, I’m telling you: these aren’t the prissy kind, with their mamas all over them. They’re live ones, wild ones, wait and see.

  We’ll go to the carnival. There’re all sorts of games and rides, and we can have fun with them there, and then later on the way home—”

  “I can’t go to the carnival,” Claude said. “I’ve no money.”

  “Nothing?”

  “When did I ever?”

  “All right—I’ve got four francs still from my birthday, and that’s enough for us both.” Michel paused and waited. “Well?” he asked.

  Claude shook his head.

  “You won’t?”

  “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “I just—can’t.”

  “You mean you’re afraid. Louise was right. You’re afraid.”

  Claude said nothing.

  “You want to be a baby all your life, is that it? My God, you’re fifteen—nearer sixteen. You’re supposed to be a man when you’re sixteen, and you’re scared of two silly brats.” Michel got angry.

  His black eyes snapped. “You’re scared as a puppydog. All right, be a puppydog. You’re the one with your mama all over you. Mama’s darling. Le beau gosse . Pfui!”

  “I just can’t go,” Claude said quietly. “I’ve other plans.”

  “Plans? To do your homework for September? To stick your snoot in a book?. . . Aaah!” Michel kicked a stone hard. “Go on then. I’ll get Jacques or Georges or someone that’s not a puppydog. Pfui! Go home to mama. The hell with you!”

  They had come to a corner and he veered suddenly off. Claude did not try to stop him, but walked on alone, slowly, along the dusty street. School and crowd were out of sight behind; only a few passers-by and idlers were about, and the houses were all shuttered against the summer heat. A distant cock crowed; a dog barked; an old woman hobbled by, prodding a pig with a stick.

  When she was gone, the only sound was the scrape of his own shoes on the cobbles. He passed the church, whitewashed and still; then a row of houses with cracked plaster fronts. He knew every line of every crack, as if they had been weathered into his own brain.

  The one that looked like a river. The one that looked like a railway track. The one that looked like the coast of Brittany. . . .

  Oh God, thought Claude. Cambon.

  He walked on. There was no sound. Nothing moved. The town was fixed in torpor, in stasis, devoid of breath, blood, bone, life itself. It was a town of the desert, parched and crumbled; a town of the sea bottom, lost and drowned. The boy’s eyes went down to the dust on the cobbles. They went up to the dust on the leaves of the plane trees. The leaves were brittle and silvered, like the paper leaves of his laurel wreaths. They gave no shade, no coolness. They simply hung there. Beyond them the sky glared, empty and inane.

  Claude sat in the dust against a blank wall.

  “You’re afraid,” Michel had said. And it had been the truth. He was afraid. Whether with no francs to his name—or with ten or ten thousand—he was still afraid. Of Louise Croz, of Mimi Rouger; of all girls; of their faces, their smiles, their giggles, their clothes. Of their bodies beneath the clothes. . . .

  “I’ve other plans,” he had answered. And this too was the truth.

  Now at last he knew it was the truth, and of this he was not afraid.

  Other boys carried francs in their pocket. They carried knives, keys, matches, girls’ brooches and lockets. . . . He carried a pencil. . . . Now from his pocket he took his pencil and the folded paper on which was written his class oration, and on the blank side of the paper he wrote:

  I shall not speak , I shall not show my heart , but still , within that heart , a fire will burn .

  Far , far I’ll go , alone , a wanderer , and life , the wide earth itself , will be my love .

  The Widow Morel sold dry goods and notions. Her store was not the biggest in Cambon, but it was not the smallest either, and in recent years it had prospered. Madame, however, was not prodigal with her francs. Though she could long since have afforded to move herself and her children to better living quarters, she had chosen to remain in the cramped quarters above the shop; and though her trade was enough to have warranted at least one paid clerk, she refused even to consider such extravagance. Claude

  helped out after school hours. So did his sister Yvette, but she was four years younger and could manage only simple transactions.