Victor Hugo: Night of the Fourth: A Remembrance (From French)

After Napoleon III's coup in 1851, Victor Hugo was one of a number of intellectuals who attempted to organize a popular resistance to the new regime. That resistance was violently put down and Hugo went into exile in Jersey under the English crown where he wrote Les Châtiments, a volume dedicated to excoriating Bonaparte and his regime, which included this poem. It recalls the death of a child on the streets of Paris on December 4th, two days after the coup d'état. I see no reason to doubt that the basic facts of the story Hugo tells here actually happened. He certainly was in a position to have experienced it that night. Some details must have been adjusted one way or another. There are differences — some of them mutually exclusive — between Hugo's verse account here and the version of the episode that he would later tell in prose in his Histoire d'un Crime. For example, the woman's complaint is here more straightforward and less confused, and her mention of religion and God here amounts to no more than stock interjections. Aragon's comparison of the two in Hugo, Poète Réaliste is worth reading. 

Night of the Fourth: A Remembrance

By Victor Hugo

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The boy had got two bullets to the brain.

The flat was decent, neat but small and plain. 

A palm branch over a portrait hung inside.

There was an old grandmother. As she cried

we stripped him silently. His mouth gaped grey.

Death had drowned his eye's last shocked look away.

His arms hung limp as if to beg a prop. 

Inside his pocket was a boxwood top.

The wounds could fit a finger in his head. 

Have you seen blackberries bleed hedges red? 

His skull was split like cordwood cut lengthwise.

We stripped the kid before the woman's eyes

as she said "Goodness is he pale. Here, bring

the lamp. His hair's stuck to his brow. Poor thing."

When it was done, she took him in her lap.

It was so dark. We could still hear the clap

of rifles killing more out in the street.

One of us said "lets wrap him", got a sheet

out of the cupboard. His grandmother stood

to bring him near the fire as if she could

warm the kid's rigored limbs back up again.

Oh anything where death's frost hands have lain

will never warm down here to any heat.

She bent her head, pulled cold socks off his feet,

and her gnarled hands cupped the cadaverous toes.

She yelled "does this not hurt to see? God knows

he was a kid. He wasn't even eight.

He was in school. Teachers thought he was great. 

Whenever I had to write a letter, he

would write it for me. Tell me. What are we 

doing now, killing children? God on high

we're criminals. This morning, right there by

the window, he was playing up the street

they shot him in. Sir, he was good and sweet

as Christ. I'm old. Time's taking me apart.

What all would it hurt Mister Bonaparte 

to have me killed instead of my dear boy?"

She stopped a moment. Sobs began to cloy

her throat. Then she spoke more as we wept too.

"Now I'm alone what am I going to do?

That little boy was the last thing that I

had of his mother. And they shot him. Why? 

Why did they kill him!? Answer me now. Speak!

That child did not yell "Vive La République." 

In silence, hats in shaking hands, we stood

wishing we could console what nothing would. 

Ma'm it's all politics that you don't get. 

Monsieur Napoleon is poor and yet

a prince. A prince wants palaces and courtiers,

he needs his horses and his household porters,

cash for his gaming, for the feasts he's serving

and hunting. And that whole time, he's preserving

society, family, the church and state.

He wants Saint Cloud's prime summer real estate

worshipped by mayors and prefects, among others.

That is the reason why some old grandmothers

with their arthritic hands that time destroys

must stitch the shrouds of seven-year-old boys.

The Original:

Souvenir de la nuit du 4

L'enfant avait reçu deux balles dans la tête.
Le logis était propre, humble, paisible, honnête ;
On voyait un rameau bénit sur un portrait.
Une vieille grand-mère était là qui pleurait.
Nous le déshabillions en silence. Sa bouche,
Pâle, s'ouvrait ; la mort noyait son oeil farouche ;
Ses bras pendants semblaient demander des appuis.
Il avait dans sa poche une toupie en buis.
On pouvait mettre un doigt dans les trous de ses plaies.
Avez-vous vu saigner la mûre dans les haies ?
Son crâne était ouvert comme un bois qui se fend.
L'aïeule regarda déshabiller l'enfant,
Disant : - comme il est blanc ! approchez donc la lampe.
Dieu ! ses pauvres cheveux sont collés sur sa tempe ! -
Et quand ce fut fini, le prit sur ses genoux.
La nuit était lugubre ; on entendait des coups
De fusil dans la rue où l'on en tuait d'autres.
- Il faut ensevelir l'enfant, dirent les nôtres.
Et l'on prit un drap blanc dans l'armoire en noyer.
L'aïeule cependant l'approchait du foyer
Comme pour réchauffer ses membres déjà roides.
Hélas ! ce que la mort touche de ses mains froides
Ne se réchauffe plus aux foyers d'ici-bas !
Elle pencha la tête et lui tira ses bas,
Et dans ses vieilles mains prit les pieds du cadavre.
- Est-ce que ce n'est pas une chose qui navre !
Cria-t-elle ; monsieur, il n'avait pas huit ans !
Ses maîtres, il allait en classe, étaient contents.
Monsieur, quand il fallait que je fisse une lettre,
C'est lui qui l'écrivait. Est-ce qu'on va se mettre
A tuer les enfants maintenant ? Ah ! mon Dieu !
On est donc des brigands ! Je vous demande un peu,
Il jouait ce matin, là, devant la fenêtre !
Dire qu'ils m'ont tué ce pauvre petit être !
Il passait dans la rue, ils ont tiré dessus.
Monsieur, il était bon et doux comme un Jésus.
Moi je suis vieille, il est tout simple que je parte ;
Cela n'aurait rien fait à monsieur Bonaparte
De me tuer au lieu de tuer mon enfant ! -
Elle s'interrompit, les sanglots l'étouffant,
Puis elle dit, et tous pleuraient près de l'aïeule :
- Que vais-je devenir à présent toute seule ?
Expliquez-moi cela, vous autres, aujourd'hui.
Hélas ! je n'avais plus de sa mère que lui.
Pourquoi l'a-t-on tué ? Je veux qu'on me l'explique.
L'enfant n'a pas crié vive la République. -

Nous nous taisions, debout et graves, chapeau bas,
Tremblant devant ce deuil qu'on ne console pas.

Vous ne compreniez point, mère, la politique.
Monsieur Napoléon, c'est son nom authentique,
Est pauvre, et même prince ; il aime les palais ;
Il lui convient d'avoir des chevaux, des valets,
De l'argent pour son jeu, sa table, son alcôve,
Ses chasses ; par la même occasion, il sauve
La famille, l'église et la société ;
Il veut avoir Saint-Cloud, plein de roses l'été,
Où viendront l'adorer les préfets et les maires ;
C'est pour cela qu'il faut que les vieilles grand-mères,
De leurs pauvres doigts gris que fait trembler le temps,
Cousent dans le linceul des enfants de sept ans.