by Brett Rutherford
Translated and adapted from Victor Hugo, l’Année Terrible, “June 1871”
[This poem refers to few actual events. It is written in the middle of the terrible reprisals against French people perceived to have been, or to have been allied with, the defeated Communards. Thousands of people were rounded up and executed, and many others were arrested, imprisoned, or exiled to penal colonies. Hugo would be involved in a number of appeals for amnesty, and continued to plead for a policy of no reprisals. This troubled poem should be read, not as a political statement, but as a poet's general deliberations on how the madness of civil war comes to pass, the extent to which individuals are to blame, the need to document and "accuse" FACTS rather than people. It ends with a gloomy speculation that even worse forces of history were hatching that would sweep people away in more waves of senseless violence. Considering the future history of Europe, we can see his dreads as justified. — BR]
XVI
Concerning this somber history,
I wish to condemn no one.
The winner always wins, his goal
and will prevails, and yet
he is dragged along by his victory.
Civil war comes, and mourning,
and draped in black as he is
the victor just fresh from triumph
stumbles and loses his footing — lo!
the inky-black waters that swallows
him, we call success; he chokes
at the very thought of more glory
if it feels and tastes like this.
This is
why I pity them all,
martyrs and executioners alike.
Alas!
woe to the orphan-makers!
Misfortune!
misfortune
to the widow-makers, woe upon woe!
Woe when
the rivers run red
with frightful carnage, and when
defiling
their beds with a torrential flood,
the
blood of man flows
where the rain once fell!
The sky is incarnadine.
Faced
with a dead man,
a double fear distresses me:
I pity
the killer as much as the corpse.
The dead
man holds the living one
immobile in his rigid hand. He can flee,
but his victim follows along.
Taking one path to evade the phantom
he comes face to face with it again.
It has no eyes, but ever it knows his name.
Turning up the dead as though to kill
a second time, his blows are in vain.
The
night and drugged sleep
do not remove it;
stand on dawns cliff and wait for it,
and hurl it to the rocks below,
yet still it comes;
lose him in drink and boredom,
place a thick shadow of thinking
about nothing whatsoever, and yet
the dead shadow rises up
between his hand and the bread
he reaches for. The skeleton’s lips
come in between him and anyone
he intends to caress. The crime
has a life of it own and the dead
are its haggard puppets. Eyes shut,
the unsinkable specter flashes on
no matter how dark the room.
***
A cruel
cross-bow extends across the heavens,
and we are all of us its target. The flying bolt
aims one day for this man, the next
for another. The winner has no respite
when, seeing another fall, he knows
another arrow will soon descend.
His heart feels death
before the arrow takes him;
he fears the event
of which he is the minister.
Each
coming hour tolls
with a dull series
of sinister thuds —
does one know his penultimate
moment when it comes? —
should
he hurry on, or wait,
for, quickening his pace,
does he go anyway to meet the arrow
at the point of its fated descent?
Oh, yes, he has his Victory.
It walls him in.
One day
in his turn, caught up
in the trap of things he made,
he shall run for his life
amid an esplanade of turned backs,
a slide of spit, fists raised
against him, the flags
that hailed him torn now
to pad a flaming torch.
They will tell him, “Go!”
He will cross the border by night,
evading the wax-sealed warrant,
and stumbling from the forest
find only one door open — mine!
***
To the useless
thinker
dreams come, and in
those dreams, truth trumpets out:
No one is guilty.
Only
from such a dark and plummeting vision
can we glimpse what truly lies
at the
bottom of the human abyss.
The next
century up
will not be a pretty one.
It rumbles
and swells in stinging vats
the way lava foams at the mouths of Vesuvius.
Who is
behind this chaos?
Who wishes Man so much ill?
I cannot pretend to know —
no one is up there handing out tablets.
Thunderbolts
roar, eagles fly by;
everything
we saw in this Terrible Year
was done between the claws of unknown,
hideous, and necessary scourges;
they rushed like a flock of birds.
The heart’s deep blood,
down to the marrow of the bones,
the whole of mankind trembled
as the dark swarm of new facts
(the shock-news of deeds and actions)
split open the clouds
and vomited disasters.
And as
all the calamities fell
upon our battered brows,
we recognized the evil
from which we suffer,
the formidable mass of all the poor,
the penned-in, downtrodden ones
let their appetites roar out.
Yet some of us thought:
if there is something they merely wish for,
let them strive on, and hear them out
— they will tire of it — distractions
are easy to arrange, and holidays —
it if occurred to anyone
that they howled from starvation,
that thought was soon put aside.
Haven’t
we all suffered enough?
So what
really happened
during this incredible time?
The
furious shocks we could all see and hear;
the subtle venoms ran underground.
Why did
these winds blow? Where did they come from?
Why
these jets of flame
that keep on crushing the huddled
crowd?
Why did
we suddenly perceive
the gulf that separated low from
high?
Crimes
were committed, senseless and violent:
yet we are innocent.
Revolutions
sometimes shed blood,
and when
their will to win is unleashed,
their
formidable passion surmounts all reason
and flaming rampant,
cannot be distinguished from hatred.
Let us
maintain, let us maintain
the sacred principles;
but when hearts are led astray by a tempest,
when they blow on us like ashes,
to the depths of the dark problem
we must know how to come back
down.
Man
suffers, the bottomless abyss
acts as though it had a will
of its own; the hurricanes themselves
are the true scoundrels,
the only true criminals.
Is the
drunkard permitted a stay
if he does not remember things said,
things done in the heat of insult and passion?
What of the citizen turned madman
who comes to his senses
amid the carnage
to find his knife-hand in a brother’s heart?
Can we
banish the storm that pulled us under
to its own Devil’s Island? Should we all go off
to the jungles of Guyana
until our brains cool down?
No, we are better than this. Hyenas have not
possessed us. Our neighbors have not
been transformed into cannibals or bandits.
It is not a matter of weaker wills
against strong ones. The fury
of one fatal wind can carry us all away
and tear away the anchor of human conscience.
Does the
man whom the wild sea shook
get
charged for the flood that toyed with him?
Can one
be both the vulture and the prey?
Although
I think I know what struck us,
although
I feel merciful towards the unknown,
I say now,
that we must accuse facts only.
Facts
are what they are;
the judgment of history
an implacable engine
that nothing disconcerts.
But
should we therefore fear the future?
Of
course, we have to consider.
Trembling does us no good.
Be sure
of it: this curtain of destiny
thickened
by enigma, this deformed ocean
where
the human soul floats,
the vast
obscurity of the whole phenomenon,
this
world in need of a child
whose crayons sketch out
the way through chaos,
these
ideals we held aloft
that came back to us as scourges,
these
riots that issued forth with song
that always miss their purpose,
all this
terror, yes, out of a kernel of hope.
The
frosty morning dismays the horizon;
sometimes
the day begins
with
such a chill
that the
rising sun seems like a dark attack.
A flower
is suspended there,
the stinging thorn, its price.
Amid blue mountaintops I tread
on a path of anguish.
Does not all life begin
by tearing open someone’s
belly? The best we can know
is august suffering.
Each
wave of the unknown
confuses with its livid tint;
only much later, as though
a series of veils had lifted
comes
clarity. And what it shows
seems some arcane geometry
a thousand times folded in.
All things, all places, and all
at one time, astonishing!
Yet it is hideous to see
beneath the shadows of the present,
the evils of tomorrow
already pregnant there.
One dreads the coming day,
a superhuman Hell.
Down in
some wormhole obscure,
something wicked germinates.
Rising, it will lure the young,
appalling their parents.
Its terrifying night will blot
the azure sky above, as rays
emit from the darkly glowing egg.
Oh, doom
I see! This gloomy larva
will grow its own wings,
a barely-visible specter
in the depth of eternal shadow.
Tomorrow
is that black embryo
curled up inside Today.
I dread it even as I know
it has no choice but to be.
It crawls at first. It waits
for its wings to form.
Scant
need of them, it seems,
for it has the power to hover there,
a horror to look upon,
formless and blind and awful,
biding its time
for a dawn of apotheosis.
The Future
is a monster.
Who knows, but from its fire
and disaster, an archangel
will at last reveal itself?
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