This is What Tyrants Do

(after Victor Hugo)

The child was dead.  Two bullets in the head.

The room was decent, humble, honest, clean.

An Easter palm was pinned to some old print.

A grandmother wept quietly in one corner.

In silence, we took off the little boy’s clothes.

His bloodless mouth gaped open, and one eye

stared wild, surprised, unseeing, drowned in death.

His arms appeared to ask us, as they flopped,

for help; one pocket held a wooden top.

You could have put a finger in each hole.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a hedge

with over-ripened blackberries; that’s how

the darkened clots appeared.  His broken skull

reminded me of firewood, split in two.

The old grandmother watched us as we worked,

saying, “How pale he is! Come near the lamp.

Oh, God!  His poor hair’s sticking to his head!”

Once we were done, she held him in her lap.

The night was ugly.  Shots were ringing still

along the street.  Others were being killed.

“The boy has to be buried,” someone said.

A walnut cabinet gave up a sheet,

but grandma wasn’t ready.  Not for that.

She took him to the hearth to warm him up,

not noticing his legs, already stiff.

Alas!  Our mortal fires can’t give back breath

to those who’ve felt the icy hand of Death.

She bent her head and took his little feet.

“And isn’t this a thing to break your heart?”

she cried.  “He wasn’t even eight years old!

The teachers in that school thought well of him.

I tell you, Sir, if I should need a letter,

he wrote it for me.  Are they terrorists?

Sweet Jesus!  Are they killing children now?

I watched him play this morning, at the door.

This gentle little creature.  I am old,

it would be nothing if I had to die.

So couldn’t Monsieur Bonaparte shoot me,

instead?”  She stopped.  Her sobbing took control. 

Emotions mastered once again, she said,

“What am I going to do, alone?  Tell me.

He’s all that I had left of his poor mother.

What did they kill him for?  I wish someone

would walk in and explain it all to me.

Some shout for the Republic, that I know,

but not this little scrap of life.  Not him!”

 

We stood there glumly, speechless, hats in hands,

helpless before this grief which couldn’t be eased.

 

I’m sorry, Ma’am.  You don’t know politics.

But Monsieur Bonaparte is full of tricks.

A commoner like you, he feels that since

he has the name, he ought to be a prince.

He likes fine horses, servants, palaces,

and Sandras, Julies, Saras, Lucy’s, Alices.

Of course, he’ll save the Church, the Bank,

protect the Family, and folks of Rank.

But first, he needs Saint-Cloud’s unblemished lawns,

where second-rates can come and grovel, fawn,

and flatter him.  Such things just have to be.

That’s why old women who can barely see

must sit up, weeping in the dark and cold,

to sew the winding-sheets of seven-year-olds.

 

Author's Note

(1) The original title of the poem is Souvenir de la nuit de 4 (Recollection of the Night of the Fourth). It was on December 4, 1851 that Louis Napoleon Bonaparte (nephew of the great Napoleon) launched the coup d'etat which swept him to power.
(2) The child was dead: This direct, hard-hitting style may not seem very astonishing to us, but in the mid-nineteenth century it was shocking. What follows is a remarkable piece of war journalism, as much as an outstanding poem.
(3) A grandmother wept quietly: We have no proof that this incident took place as described, but it has the ring of truth. Victor Hugo was certainly out on the streets, trying to resist Bonaparte's seizure of power, and he may well have witnessed this incident.
(4) Some shout for the Republic: Bonaparte was in the process of overthrowing the Second Republic, the legitimate government of France. Anyone crying Vive la Republique was asking to be gunned down. Here, Hugo is showing how far removed this family is from any political stance.
(5) I'm sorry, Ma'am: Up to this point, I have kept the rhyme and meter fairly loose, to mirror the confusion of that dramatic night. Now, however, Hugo is making his satirical point, and I have tried to help it swim into focus by tightening up the versification.
(6) St-Cloud: An opulent palace, just to the west of Paris.
(7) Because of his vehement opposition to the new regime, Victor Hugo had to leave France. From exile, he kept up a barrage of literary abuse and condemnation of "The Little Napoleon", as he nicknamed the emperor. Le Chatiments (1853) is more than a collection of fine poems. It is a masterpiece of sarcasm and ridicule. This poem is taken from that marvelous book.