A Verb's Past Participle

by Brett Rutherford

Adapted from Victor Hugo, l’Année Terrible, “June 1871”

 

People have, in their minds, an exaggerated sense of the value, the abilities, the importance of the national guard ... My God, you have seen the kepi [cap] of Mr. Victor Hugo which symbolized this situation.

(General Trochu at the National Assembly — June 14, 1871.)

 

You, Trochu,
     more of a past participle than an active verb,
a man whose virtues could not be counted
     because they amounted to zero.
I am told you are a brave, and honest,
     and pious soldier, as modest
as any nobody, a good eye
     over an empty cannon, a man
a great perspective,
     too many perspectives, in fact,
a man of courage
     but with such Christian virtues
that you can serve both masters
by doing nothing whatsoever
and yet remain a man of your word —
I hope I am doing you justice
     by this little conjugation,
as you bow to the nation
     while creeping at Mass
across the cathedral stones,
you figure of speech —
well, what do you want from me?
Why aim this offensive barb my way —

to give the Prussians pleasure?

 

Amid the German siege,
and what felt like a Russian winter.
I was, I admit, no more
than an unarmed old man,
honored to be in Paris
    locked up like everyone
     with the Prussians on every side.

Sometimes I took advantage
    when it was dark enough
     to evade the grapeshot,
to climb the great wall
     and greet our defenders,
to be able to say “Present!”
     though not a Fighter.
At seventy, I may have been
     good for nothing,
     but I did not capitulate.

 

The laurels in your hand

     turn into nettles.

What the hell, it’s against me
     that you turn your ire?

You led in such a miserly way
     when we were starving!
Having spent so few missiles,
     did you hoard them for me?
You couldn’t be bothered
     to cross the Marne’s peninsula,
so now you take aim at me?
For what? I left you alone.
Why does blue cloth
     on my poor white head
offend you? Does my kepi
     molest your rosary?

 

You poor, unhappy creature!

Five months of cold and hunger went by.
We stared at the abyss. We never
bothered you, united and confident
even as we hid in cellars, quivering.
You are a great general, if you say so,
but when we have to run into battle,
go out to sea, or push a whole army
into the enemy fire, who sounds the charge?
I prefer the little drum of a Barra.

 

Think of Garibaldi who came from Caprera,

think of Kléber in Cairo, of Manin in Venice,

and just calm down. Great Paris dies

because you lack, not heart, but faith.

Your legacy will be a bitter one. They’ll say
France, thanks to him, went lame.

In those great days, amid the solemn anguish
this bleeding, wounded country,
     which in its heart never fell,
marched for Gambetta out there,
and limped with Trochu back here.

 

If you are a verb, I spell you out:
“has been” just gets it right.