By Hind Baytamouni | Staff Writer
War has ended. You take a walk in a valley bathed by sunlight, listening to the river; it is soothing. The peacefulness is immersing, and in the distance, you see what appears to be a soldier, taking a rest from the battle. He seems to be sleeping peacefully, until you get a better view and find out he is not. He is dead.
“The sleeper in the valley”, or “Le Dormeur du Val” in French, depicts no battlefields, no weapons, no enemies, just a sunlit valley, a sleeping soldier, and the eerie calmness of nature. It is a poem that is meant to shock, as Arthur Rimbaud paints a beautiful imagery that misleads us into not expecting the underlying morbidity – a kind of literary betrayal. But what if it’s not Rimbaud betraying us, but our own senses all along?
When Rimbaud wrote “Le Dormeur du Val”, he was only 16 years old during the Franco-Prussian war. Naturally, he was deeply affected by war, so this poem could be his expression of his personal turmoil towards the horrors he was seeing. It is in fact speculated that what he described is a lived experience, as, by that time, he was frequently travelling by foot.
But when one expects war literature to be loud and revolving around the battlefield, Rimbaud takes a different direction, inviting us to adopt another perspective, a calmer one. Known to master a raw writing style, bypassing logic and appealing to emotions and the senses, he allows the readers to have this sensory experience, and ends it with a twist.
It’s a simple poem; we take off in “a green hollow where a river sings, a small valley which bubbles over with rays.” He then proceeds to describe a young soldier, who seems to be asleep on the grass. But it starts to get suspicious, he’s “Pale on his green bed,” even when lying in the warmth of the sun.
“He sleeps,” we say again, convincing ourselves that everything aligns perfectly with the serenity of nature. He’s even smiling…but “Smiling as a sick child would smile.” It is beginning to feel odd. Perhaps we’re just overthinking, “he is taking a nap,” but “he is cold.” It is what we’ve been thinking all along, isn’t it?
“He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast,
Quieted. There are two red holes in his right side.”
Deceived. This wasn’t about a peaceful moment after war; the soldier isn’t enjoying rest after long lasting and draining battles. Warfare has consequences, tragic ones which we do not like, and this fallen youth is one of them. The poem progressively gets more disturbing, contrasting the eerie state of the soldier with the beauty of Nature. And yet, looking at it through the poet’s eyes, we keep convincing ourselves of what we wish were there, but in fact isn’t, just to end up in shock.
In a way, nature is what misleads us. Nature here is not a battle ground, it plays a more important role, a witness of war’s destruction and the painful silence that lingers beyond the battle. In war, the countless deaths of the soldiers are unremarkable, swallowed by the scale of overall destruction, most of them left unremembered by all but by their families…if they survive. Their lifeless bodies unnoticed except by nature itself; this false sense of peace we were lulled into isn’t false at all; it just wasn’t meant for us, but for the dead.
And when there is no one to mourn the fallen of war, Nature is left, grieving the loss of innocence as the young die and humans are deprived of their humanity.
Between the “proud mountain”, and the plea “Nature, cradle him warmly,” Nature gifts a eulogy to these forgotten soldiers – like the one we faced here, faceless, nameless – which could be the closest thing they would ever get to peace and rest, and the least they deserve for having their life taken away.
Like nature in movement contrasting the stillness of the soldier, the world still moves on after the tragedy. Rimbaud tells us that war doesn’t last; but at the same time, it doesn’t end with the fights. The painful haunting silence lingers afterwards. How do we remember the scars of war’s aftermath?
What’s raw about this poem is the absence of heroism or victory – only the remains of a fallen soldier, whose identity we do not know. It reminds me of the endless lists of names of war victims published during the ongoing Palestinian conflict, where, just like in this simple poem, no direct articulation is needed to feel the weight of the loss. A 19th century poem, still relevant today, as the massive genocides rob away the lives of people, sometimes leaving no one behind, but Nature, to remember them.
“The Sleeper in the Valley” remains as a collective memory of war – a reminder of its lasting scars, and a tribute to both the innocents and the fighters.