I do not regret my old rôle of divine gaiety: the sober air of this sour country most diligently feeds my atrocious skepticism. But since this skepticism cannot be put in practice hereafter, and since besides I am at the service of a new disorder . . . I look forward to becoming a very wicked idiot."
If he is looking forward to this, he is certainly not looking forward to much else. Indeed how is he to look forward any longer? Disgust has caught up with him and the infinite possibilities are gone. Deserving, this is a new word for Rimbaud. And what does he mean by his new disorder? . . .
Shortly after writing these words, Rimbaud returned again to London, and there occurred in a series of rather monotonous brawls and arguments a really decisive incident. For two years Rimbaud and Verlaine had been almost constant companions. At first there was a basis, at least of mutual admiration. But the precarious friendship between two such impossible persons was already becoming intolerable when Verlaine was called to Brussels by his mother, who stated that she had arranged for a reconciliation to take place there between him and his wife. Rimbaud tried to persuade his friend that the reconciliation would never be realized, but Verlaine persisted in hoping against hope and finally departed without even saying good-bye. As Rimbaud had predicted, Verlaine found only his mother in Brussels and sent off a despairing telegram to Rimbaud imploring his assistance. Rimbaud, who feared that Verlaine might dispose of himself, spent his last penny on a ticket to Brussels. When Verlaine saw him again he forgot his misery, forgot also the plans for sensible behaviour which his mother had been urging upon him, and went into transports of relief, which included the absorption of a large quantity of absinthe. Rihbaud, himself considerably relieved, remembered that he was through with Verlaine and asked for money with which to get home. Verlaine not only refused the money, but, when Rimbaud insisted that he was going even if he had to walk, shot him with a revolver, wounding his hand. After other ridiculous manoeuvres, Verlaine through no fault of his victim's went to a Belgian prison for two years, while Rimbaud returned to Charleville in the final stages of disorganization.
During that summer he completed Une Saison en Enfer, which as far as we know was the last thing, outside of a few letters and re-
