Total Eclipse

Sometimes he speaks in a kind of tender dialect...

of the death which causes repentance...

of the unhappy men who certainly exist...

of painful tasks and heartrending departures.

In the hovels where we got drunk...

he wept looking at those who surrounded us...

a cattle of poverty.

He lifted up drunks in the black streets.

He had the pity a bad mother has for small children.

He moved with the grace of a little girl at catechism.

He pretended to know about everything...

business, art, medicine.

I followed him.

I had to.

Someone for you, sir. Over there.

Do I know her?

She gave me her card.

Please...

Please sit down.

Has Andre been looking after you?

Can I get you something to drink?

No, thank you.

Please.

It's really a business matter...

I want to discuss with you, Mr. Verlaine.

This was published a few months ago...

an unauthorized selection of my brother's poems.

My mother and I are anxious to prevent...

anything like this from happening again.

We thought you might be able to help us.

I? How?

I understand you have a large number...

of my brother's manuscripts.

I have some, yes.

My mother and I would be very grateful...

if you would return them.

I've always tried to use the utmost discretion...

in everything concerning your brother.

I think I can say I've always defended his interests.

Sometimes I wonder why, since in many ways...

they're diametrically opposed to my own.

I don't see how.

It took many years for his work to be understood...

but once his name began to be known...

it soon became clear that our ways were numbered.

The music of old-fashioned verse was no longer enough.

He swept us away.

Not that I mind, you understand.

I know I was once a good writer.

I didn't know his name was so well-known.

Yes. The young understand him now.

He's the voice of the future.

What matters to me most...

is that we did our best work together.

Both of us.

Morning!

I'm looking for Paul Verlaine.

Are you Monsieur Rimbaud?

Yes.

Monsieur Verlaine is not with you, then?

No.

He went to the station to meet you.

He doesn't know what I look like, does he?

I am Mrs. Maute de Fleurville...

Monsieur Verlaine's mother-in-law,

and this is my daughter... Mrs. Verlaine.

How did you get from the station?

Walked.

Perhaps you'd like a wash.

No.

You're even younger than we imagined.

How old are you?

Darling, it's not polite to ask people their ages.

I need a piss.

How old are you, if you don't mind?

He does.

Sixteen.

You did say in your letter you were twenty-one.

I noticed you at the station...

but I didn't think it could be you.

Likewise.

Those poems you sent me...

were remarkable for someone of twenty-one.

For someone of sixteen, they're unprecedented.

That's why I told you I was twenty-one.

I didn't want you to feel patronizing...

before you'd read them.

Of course. I hope your mother isn't too angry with me.

Once she'd found out you'd sent the fare...

she seemed quite happy.

You come from the Ardennes, don't you, Monsieur Rimbaud?

Yes.

Pleasant town, Charleville, isn't it?

Last place on God's earth.

What does your father do?

Drinks mostly, I believe.

We haven't seen him for ten years.

I'm sorry.

No need. He's very well out of it.

Perhaps you'd like to read something to us after dinner.

No. I don't think so.

- Why not? - Don't want to.

I never read out my poetry.

All the other poets do.

I'm not interested in what they do.

We have soirees.

And you think poets can learn from one another?

Only if they're bad poets.

You know about this?

I know what it is.

It's the poet's third eye.

Melts glasses.

What do you think of my wife?

I don't know.

What do you think of her?

She's still only a child, of course.

So am I.

Absinthe, two.

You should do something about getting it published.

Why?

Because that's what writers do.

I couldn't care less about being published.

The only thing that matters is the writing itself.

Everything else is literature.

Your last book wasn't good enough.

You don't think so?

Premarital garbage.

No. Love poems.

A lot of people found them very beautiful.

But they're all lies.

They're not lies. I love her.

- Love? - Yes.

- No such thing. - What do you mean?

Whatever binds families and married couples together...

that's not love.

That's stupidity or selfishness or fear.

Love doesn't exist.

You're wrong.

Self-interest exists.

Attachment based on personal gain exists.

Complacency exists.

But not love.

Love has to be reinvented.

Why did he want so much to escape from reality?

There never was a man with such an aim.

Did he perhaps know secrets to change life?

"Sometimes I've seen...

"what people think they've seen."

He's not how I imagined him.

"I've wept too many tears...

"heartbreaking dawns."

I prefer your poems.

I don't really understand that kind of thing.

No.

No. This is something new.

"I've wept too many tears...

"heartbreaking dawns."

What is it?

He's kicking.

You see?

There.

Don't you think it would be more sensible...

to get one of your friends to put him up?

People don't understand him.

I'm the only one who understands him.

Well, Daddy certainly won't understand him.

We had a revolution this year which I supported.

I could have been shot.

If I hadn't been thrown out of my job...

you think I would have accepted your father's damn charity?

For God's sake, all I'm doing is helping a friend!

Why must we go through all this? I'm your husband!

I'm sorry, Paul.

Are you trying to annoy me?

No.

Well, don't.

Evening! Everyone's in bed, I'm afraid...

unless you've come to see the old boy.

The old boy?

Maute de Fleurville. A friend of his?

No.

You wouldn't like to buy a crucifix, would you?

I can let you have this one on extremely reasonable terms.

It's made with real pearls, I think.

Who the hell are you?

I might ask you the same question...

except I'd be more polite.

I am Maute de Fleurville.

Then this is your dog I just broke.

What?

Why?

Dogs are all liberals.

Since when have you had the right...

to invite people into this house without my permission?

If I can't put up a guest in my own home...

I might as well live somewhere else.

If you weren't so idle, you could afford to.

- You know very well... - Any excuse.

I don't notice you working your fingers to the bone.

When you next see that hooligan...