Note: these memoirs are free to share and copy under a Creative Commons 4.0 License.
They are not the same translation as the 1981 translation by Bullitt Lowry and Elizabeth Ellington Gunter, published by the University of Alabama Press.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part One
Chapter 6 – “The Origins of Revolution”
Chapter 7 – “Marriage and Oaths”
Chapter 8 – “Early Teaching Career”
Chapter 11 – “On Cruelty to Animals”
Chapter 12 – “Studying in Paris”
Chapter 13 – “Unrest in the Second Empire”
Chapter 14 – “The Paris Commune 1871”
Chapter 15 – “Bloody Week and After”
Chapter 16 – Deportation to New Caledonia
PART TWO
Chapter 1 – “Struggling Beasts”
Chapter 2 – “Revolutionary Thoughts”
Chapter 5 – “La Revolution Sociale”
Chapter 6 – “New Caledonia. Imprisonment”
Chapter 7 – “Inventory of Works”
Chapter 8 – “New Caledonia – Nature”
Chapter 9 – “To Friends Passed”
Chapter 10 – “Southern Travels”
Chapter 11 – “The Return of the Exiles / Marie Ferré”
Chapter 16 – “Mother’s Funeral”
* Note: The chapters in the original version of Louise’s memoirs do not have titles, but are provided above for ease of navigating topics
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 1
Often I have been asked to write my memoirs, but I always felt loathe to talk about myself, similar to that which someone would feel if they undressed in public.
Today, despite this childish and bizarre feeling, I resign myself to collecting a few memories. I will try to ensure that they are not too steeped in sadness.
Marie Ferré, my beloved friend, already collected some of these fragments which bear her name; my dear good mother also did.
My existence is made up of two very distinct parts. They form a complete contrast. The first is comprised of all dream and study; the second, of events, as if the aspirations of the period of calm came to life in the period of struggle.
In this account, I will try to include as little as possible the names of long lost people, so as not to cause them the unpleasant surprise of being accused of colluding with revolutionaries. Who knows if certain people would not make it a crime for having known me, and if they would not be treated as anarchists, without knowing exactly what it is?
My life is full of poignant memories. I will often recount them at random. If my pen wanders, please understand that I have earned that right.
I admit that there will be feeling in the words; we women, we do not pretend to tear the heart from our breasts. We find the human being – I was going to say, the human beast – rather incomplete like that. We prefer to suffer and live by feeling as well as by intelligence.
If a little bitterness slips into these pages, no venom will fall. I hate the cursed mould into which centuries-old errors and prejudices throw us, but I do not believe too much in responsibility. It is not the fault of the human race that it is eternally kneaded into such a miserable form, and like the beast, we consume ourselves in the struggle for existence.
When all forces are turned against the obstacles that hinder humanity, it will pass through the turmoil. In our incessant battle, the lone human being is not, and cannot, be free.
We are on the raft of the Medusa, as though we want to abandon the sinister wreck at anchor in the middle of breakers. We act like shipwrecked people.
When, then, oh black raft, will we cut the mooring while singing the new legend?
I was thinking about it on Virginie (the ship which exiled Louise Michel to New Caledonia), as the sailors weighed anchor, chanting the Bardits d’armor.
Bac va leste ce sobian hac ar mor cézobras!
The rhythm, the sound, multiplied the forces; the cable wound up; the men were sweating; deaf crackles escaped from the ship and from their breasts.
Like the old Bardit of the seas, we are small in our ship, and the sea is large. But we know the legend of the pirates. Turn your bow to the wind, said the kings of the seas, All the coasts are ours.
But I am distracted. I remember now that I write my memoirs, so it must come to talking about myself. I will do it boldly and frankly for everything that concerns me personally, leaving aside those who raised me (in the old ruin of Vroncourt, where I was born) in the obscurity that they loved. The War Councils of 1871, who during their investigations searched meticulously to the bottom of my cradle, respected my relatives, and I will not disturb their ashes in their rest.
The moss has erased their names on the cemetery slabs. The old castle has been tipped over. Yet often, I still see the nest of my childhood, and those who raised me, leaning over me. We will often see them also in this book. Alas! of the memory of the dead, of the thought that flees, of the hour which passes, nothing remains. Nothing but duty, including the duty to lead my life roughly so that it is exhausted all the more quickly.
But why feel sorry for oneself, in the midst of general pain? Why stop to look only at a drop of water? Look at the ocean!
I wanted that my three court judgments would accompany my memoirs.
For us, any judgment is a collision which flies the flag of our cause. This flag will cover my book, as it has covered my life, as it will lay across my coffin.
I extract the following from the court Gazette, which cannot be suspected of being too favourable to us. (Apart from the second Gazette which, being for the correctional police only, has not been reported.) I will add for the masses, the wide masses, my loves, observations that I did not think I should make to the judges. They can be found, in addition to the judgments, at the end of the volume.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 2
My childhood nest had four square towers, the same height as the main building, with bell-shaped roofs. The south side, absolutely windowless, and the loopholes in the towers, gave it the air of a mausoleum or a fortress, depending on the point of view.
It was called the Fortress when we lived there. I have often also heard it called the Tomb.
To the east of this vast ruin, where the wind blew through as it does in a ship, there were vines and the village of Vroncourt, from which it was separated by a grass road as wide as a meadow. At the end of this path, which we called the routote, a stream ran down the only street in the village. It swelled in winter; stones were placed there for the people to cross it.
Further to the east, there was a curtain of poplars where the wind murmured softly, and behind that was the blue mountains of Bourmont. When I later saw Sydney, Australia, surrounded by bluish peaks, I recognised (with a magnification) the mountain ridges that dominate the Cona.
To the west was the coasts and the woods of Suzerin, where the wolves, at the time of the great snows, entered through crumbling parts of the wall to howl in the courtyard. The dogs answered them, furious, and this concert lasted until the morning. It was all going to ruin and I loved those nights.
I loved them especially when the north wind blew strongly, and we read very late, the whole family gathered in the large room of our house, setting the stage for winter and the high cold rooms. The white shroud of the snow, the choirs of the wind, wolves and dogs, would have been enough to make me a little poetic, even if our family had not already all been so from the cradle. It was a heritage that has its legend.
It was freezing cold in these enormous rooms. We gathered near to the fire, my grandfather in his armchair, between his bed and a pile of rifles. He was always dressed in a large white flannel cloak, and wore slippers lined with sheepskin. I was often seated on one of these clogs, almost nestling in the ashes with the dogs and cats.
We had a large female dog from Spain, with long yellow hair, and two others of the shepherd dog breed, all three responding to the name of Presta. We also had a black and white dog we called Medor, and a very young pup, who had been named La Biche in memory of an old mare who had just died.
We had mourned La Biche. My grandfather and I had wrapped her head in a white tablecloth so that the earth would not touch it, and we set her at the bottom of the big hole where she was buried near the acacia of the bastion.
The female cats were all called Galta; they were the tigers and the redheads. The male cats were all called Lion or Raccoon; there were legions of them and they would crowd around the fire. Sometimes, with the tip of the fire tongs, my grandfather would show them a lighted charcoal; then the whole band fled, to return only a moment later to assault the hearth again.
Around the table were also my mother, my aunt and my grandmothers, one reading aloud, the others knitting or sewing.
I have here the basket in which my mother put her working things.
Often, friends came to watch with us; when Bertrand was there, or the old teacher from Ozières, M. Laumond, the little Laumond, as we called him, the vigil was prolonged. They wanted to send me to bed so that they could finish chapters that they did not want to completely read in front of me.
On these occasions, sometimes I refused stubbornly (and almost always won my case). Other times, in a hurry to hear what they wanted to hide from me, I complied with haste, and stayed behind the door instead of going to my bed.
In summer, the ruin would fill with birds, entering through the windows. The swallows came to take back their nests, the sparrows knocked on the windows, and when we sang, the larks yelled bravely with us (falling silent when we went into minor key.)
Birds were not the only companions in addition to the dogs and cats; there were also partridges, a turtle, a roe deer, wild boars, a wolf, owls, bats, broods of orphan hares raised with a spoon – a whole menagerie! – without forgetting the foal Zéphir and his grandmother Brouska, whose age we no longer count. She would come into the house to take bread or sugar from the hands that pleased her, and show to people who did not suit her her large yellow teeth, as if she laughed at them with her nose.
Our old mare La Biche also had a rather funny habit: if I held a bouquet, she took it, and ran her tongue over my face.
What about the cows? There was the big white one who we called Bioné, and the two young ones, who we called Bella and Nera. I would talk with them in the stable, and they would answer me in their own way, looking at me with their dreamy eyes. All these animals lived in harmony. The cats lying in circles carelessly followed with their eyes the birds, the partridges, the quails trotting on the ground.
Behind the green tapestry covering the walls, which were riddled with holes, circulated mice. They made little cries, rapid but were not afraid; I never saw a cat bother to disturb them in their wanderings. Besides, the mice behaved perfectly, never gnawing at notebooks or books, and never having grasped the violins, guitars or cellos that were lying around everywhere.
What peace we had in this house in my life at the time! Although I was always finding the time to conduct mischief!
With each event that happened in our family, my grandmother wrote a verse about it, collecting it in two collections of large red cardboard, which I wrapped in black crepe at her death. My grandfather had added a few pages to it, and myself, when still a child, too. I dared to start a Universal History in it, because that of Bossuet, who appeared in a book that my cousin Jules had won at college, bored me.
I scanned the main facts as best I could. Seeing for a long time the superiority of the courses adopted in the colleges over those which still make up the education of provincial girls, I would, many years later, be given the opportunity to verify the difference between two courses given on the same subject, one for the ladies, the other for the ‘stronger sex’! I could convince myself that I was not mistaken. When educating us, they tell us a lot of nonsense, supported by so-called reasoning, while they force our teachers to swallow balls of science that they choke on. Alas! it is a strange instruction, and those who will be in our place in a few hundred years will do nicely to pity our education.
There must have been some famous nonsense in my work; I had consulted enough infallible books for that, but I was given a few volumes of Voltaire and I planted my unfinished work there, along with a great poem about the Cona which M. Laumont (the bigger Laumont) had believed to disenchant me with, by telling me so many burlesque legends about the mountain of Bourmont so as to make all the stones of Haute-Marne laugh.
My poem told the story of a hermitage where, for a long time, there lived a rascally holy man during the day, and a robber of travellers during the night, from whom the good people of the country paid dearly in prayers to deliver them. There was said to be a little tree that ran through the woods and the plain. As soon as the moon would rise, the holy man withdrew into solitude, for he was the little tree.
What prevented me from finishing the famous poem of Cona was a mammoth tooth, of which even M. Laumont (the bigger Laumont), spoke with enthusiasm. I put aside my poetry to establish, at the top of the north tower, a small cabin full of everything that could pass for geological finds. I included very modern skeletons of dogs, cats, skulls of horses found in the fields, crucibles, a furnace, a tripod, and the devil, if he existed, would know all that I tried there. Alchemy, astrology, evocations, all the legends passed there, from Nicolas Flamel to Faust.
I had my lute there, a horrible instrument that I had made myself with a pine board and old guitar strings, although it is true that I mended it with new ones. It is this barbaric instrument which I spoke pompously about to Victor Hugo. In the verses that I addressed to him, he never knew what a rude thing it was, this lute of the poet – this lyre! – of which I sent him the sweetest chords!
I also had in my turret a magnificent owl with phosphorescent eyes that I called Olympus, and delicious bats drinking milk like little cats, and for which I had dismantled the bigger Laumond’s winnow, their security demanding that they be caged during the day.
My mother, half scolding, half laughing, heard me for a few days singing on my lute the Grilla Rapita, which she has since kept with old papers that I called Songs of the Dawn. Here is this song LA GRILLA RAPITA:
Ah what a horrible girl
She broke the winnow
The big winnow for the grain.
And we winnow tomorrow!
If fa, fa re, d if; if re fa, if do re,
She makes a cage out of it,
A nocturnal omen
For her bats
This is not allowed.
If fa, fa re, d if, if d fa, if do re-
But everywhere I look for her!
No doubt she perches
In her attic hole
Let’s go correct it.
If fa, fa re, re if, if re fa, if do re.
Ah that’s quite another thing.
Here are the scented herbs,
A furnace, crucibles.
It all smells bad
If fa, fa re, re if, if re fa, if do re.
Let’s call her grandmother
Let’s call her grandfather
We must end it.
But how to punish her?
If fa, fa re, re if, if re fa, if do re,
I don’t know what line the chorus rhymes with. A few more years, after my grandparents died, I had to leave my calm retreat. I wrote my farewells on the walls of the turret, but they did not last long. Not a stone remains.
FAREWELL TO MY TOURELLE
Farewell, the manor my dreamy rest!
Goodbye my high tower open to all winds!
There remains on your old walls the moss of their crest
And I, a frail branch broken by the storm.
I will follow the rapid currents far from you.
You will see the swallows again without me,
Who in the summer days sing from the rooftops.
But, if I’m going to wander as a fugitive, like them,
Tell me, will there be nothing missing under the turrets,
When their sad echoes no longer speak my voice?
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 3
Of all the pages written by my grandfather, I only have one left; the wind of adversity blows on things as well as on beings. Here is this leaflet:
TO ANTIQUE DEALERS
Do you want antiques?
Here we are, two in the turrets.
What do swallow nests cover?
My wife and I, old and broken.
The birds are well at the windows;
We are well by the fireside.
We love summer, under the beeches;
Winter, in this peaceful place.
Everything here is old and Gothic;
Together everything will be erased.
The old men, the ancient ruin
And the child will go far away.
Here is another leaflet; this one from my grandmother after the death of her husband. It’s all I have left of them.
THE DEATH
Mourning has descended on my sad home. Pale death at home sits and I cry.
All is silence and night in the house of the dead.
No more songs, no more joy, where chords vibrated.
We whisper quietly, and as if with mystery.
It’s because we don’t come back when we sleep underground.
Forever, his absence puts an end to the songs.
These sad accents are of a very weak breath compared to the charming verses which I no longer have.
Everything vanished, even my grandfather’s guitar, which crumbled while I was in New Caledonia. My mother cried for a long time.
How different were my two grandmothers. One, with her thin Gallic face, her headdress of white muslin, pleated with fine folds, under which her hair was arranged in a big bun on her neck. The other, with black eyes like embers, short hair, enveloped in eternal youth, who reminded me of the fairies of old tales.
My grandfather, depending on the circumstances, appeared to me in different aspects while early on, recounting the great days, the epic struggles of the First Republic, he had passionate accents to describe the war of giants where, brave against brave, the whites and the blues showed themselves how heroes die. Sometimes ironic like Voltaire, the master of his time, or cheerful and witty like Molière, he explained to me the various books that we read together. Sometimes again, as we went through the unknown, we spoke of the things he saw rising on the horizon. We looked at the human stages of the past; in the future too, and often I wept, seized by some vivid image of progress, of art or of science, and he, with big tears in his eyes, laid his hand on my head, more disheveled than that of old Presta.
My mother was a blonde then, with soft smiling blue eyes, and long curly hair, so fresh and so pretty that friends would say to her laughing, “It is not possible that this naughty child is yours!” For there I was: tall, thin, bristly, wild and bold at the same time, sunburned and often decorated with torn clothing attached with pins. I did myself justice and it amused me to be found ugly. My poor mother was sometimes offended.
How much I read at that time, with Nanette and Joséphine, two young women of remarkable intelligence, who had never left the region. We talked about everything. We stole away to read, seated in the tall grass, and read of picturesque shops, family museums, Hugo, Lamartine, old Corneille, etc. I don’t know if Nanette and Joséphine didn’t love me better than their children. I liked them a lot too.
I was perhaps six or seven years old when Lamennais’s book, The Words of a Believer, was soaked with our tears. From that day on, I belonged to the crowd. From that day on, I climbed step by step through all the transformations of thought, from Lamennais to anarchy. Is this the end? No, no doubt! After and always, is there not the immense increase of all progress in light and freedom the development of new senses, of which we hardly have the rudiments, and all those things which our limited mind cannot even glimpse? Old parents, old and young friends, my mother… nothing remains today other than the dreams of my childhood.
As for my friendship with my cousin Jules, I have never met children who were at the same time so serious and so crazy, so naughty and so afraid of causing pain, so lazy and so energetic, as my cousin Jules and me.
Every year, during the holidays, he came with his mother, my aunt Agathe, whom I loved infinitely, and who spoiled me very much. I am amazed now at the questions of all kinds that we were asking, Jules and I, sometimes perched each of us in a tree where we followed the cats. Sometimes we stopped in the middle of a rehearsal of some Hugo drama, which we had arranged to play with two characters, to discuss some other matter with passion. “They respect nothing!” it was said! Why did we like to chat from tree to tree? I really don’t know; it was nice in the branches, and then we threw all the apples we could catch at each other. That made the fruits fall from the tree, which helped old Marie Verdet.
Marie Verdet was an old woman of nearly a hundred years, who described so well the apparitions of the white washerwomen at the Ladies’ Fountain, or the ghost-in-flames, red as fire, under the willows of the Mill. Marie Verdet always saw these things, and we never did! But that did not prevent us from taking pleasure in her stories, so much so that from the fairies to Faust, I came to fall in love with the fantastic, and in the haunted ruins of the pagan castle, I declared, in the midst of magic circles, my love to Satan. When he did not come, it made me think that he didn’t exist.
One day, chatting from tree to tree with Jules, I told him about the adventure and he confessed to me, for his part, having sent a no-less-tender declaration to a famous woman of letters, Mme George Sand, who had not answered any more than the devil had.
We resolved to tune our lutes on other subjects. I had just offered one, made like mine, to my cousin after a rehearsal, I believe, of Burgraves or Hernani, arranged by us for two actors. In a stormy discussion about gender equality, Jules claimed that if I was learning from his books, brought on vacation (roughly so as to be level with him), I was an anomaly. Our lutes, serving as projectiles, broke in our hands in the middle of the fight. Looking at the bottom of this memory, I find a song from that time:
THE SONG OF PEARS
We are told to go,
To sit in the fruit tree.
Watch the pears!
Can you believe it?
For some children
Whose teeth are to be feared,
The pears are fresh;
The walls have openings!
We call out
And we all sing,
Shaking the pears.
You can believe it!
To the sound of these songs,
In circles, we dance,
And here is the story
About looking after the pears.
Two more stanzas from this time, before throwing a handful of yellowed leaves into the fire.
Evening wind, what are you doing with the humble daisy?
Sea, what are you doing with the flow?
Heaven, fiery cloud?
Oh! my dream is very big and I am very small.
Destiny, what will you do with my giant dream?
Light, what do you do with the silent shadow?
And you who call her near you from so far away,
0 flame! what do you do with the moth
Mysterious dream, what will you do with me?
It has always seemed to me that we sense destiny, just as dogs sense the smell of wolves. Sometimes our destiny comes true with a strange precision.
If we told a lot of things in minute detail, they would be much more surprising. We sometimes think we are seeing the Tales of Edward Poë.
So many memories! But isn’t it idle to write this nonsense? Yesterday I could hardly get used to talking about myself; today, looking into these vanished days, it seems to never end, and I see everything again.
Here at the round stones at the end of the enclosure, near the mound and the thicket of coudiers, thousands of young toads would undergo their metamorphosis there in peace, if they did not serve to be thrown into the legs of ugly people. Poor toads.
In the courtyard behind the well, we put weary bundles of twigs; it created a scaffold, with steps, a platform, two large wooden uprights… everything, in short. We staged the revolution of Ninety-three in drama, and we climbed the steps of our scaffold one after the other, where we stood shouting “Vive la République!”
The public was represented by my cousin Mathilde, and sometimes by the feathered people who wheeled or pecked and giggled.
We searched the annals for human cruelties. The scaffold later became Jean Huss’s stake, the Bagaude’s tower on fire, etc.
As we climbed our scaffold one day while singing, my grandfather pointed out to us that it was better to climb there in silence and to affirm at the top the principle for which we died, which is what we did afterwards. But our games were not always so serious. There was, for example, an exciting game where the pigs served us as wild boars. We lit brooms to serve as torches and we ran with the dogs; with the terrible sound of shepherd’s horns that we called hunting horns; an old guard had taught us to ring something that he called hallali. It seems that very open rules were observed in these disheveled pursuits, which ended in driving back, willy-nilly, the pigs towards home. Sometimes they would fall into the water hole in the vegetable garden where, with their fat supporting them, they made desperate oof!s until we saved them. It wasn’t always easy. Men with ropes took care of it, shouting at us. I was thought by everyone to play like an escaped horse: it was perhaps true.
You have to let me write things as they come to me!
I pass from sight and go endlessly into the shadows, I am no-where.
You have seen, in Macbeth, those who come out of the unknown and return to it as the sons of Banquo. I see those who disappeared yesterday or a long time ago, as they were, with everything that surrounded them in their lives, and the wound of the absence bleeds as much as in the first days.
I’m not homesick, but I’m sick for the dead.
The more I advance in this story, the more numerous they are crowded around me, the images of those whom I will never see again, and at the last, my mother. There are moments when I refuse to believe it. It seems to me that I will wake up from a horrible nightmare and see her again.
But no, her death is not a dream.
The pen stops, in this poignant pain I would like to tell; I don’t like to write.
May my sight return once again to Vroncourt.
Near the coudrier, in a bastion in the garden wall, was a bench, where my mother and grandmother came during the summer, after the heat of the day. My mother, to please her, had filled this corner of the garden with all kinds of roses. While they chatted, I leaned against the wall.
The garden was cool in the evening dew. The perfumes, mingling with it, rose like a spray; the honeysuckle, the mignonette, the roses, all exhaled sweet perfumes to which was added the penetrating odour of each one.
The bats flew gently in the twilight and, this shadow cradling my thought, I sang the ballads that I liked, without thinking that death was about to pass. And the ballads, and the thought, and the voice went with the breath of the wind, there were beautiful ones…
Children, here are the oxen passing by.
Hide your red aprons.
And the Louis d’or? and the Timpanist’s Fiancée? and so many others?
With these days of dawn, sad or dreamy refrains went away. I no longer even sing the war songs. In silence I go away; in silence, like death.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 4
My career as a teacher began at a young age in my village, and then continued in Paris both as a deputy with Mme Vollier, 16, rue du Château-d’Eau, and in Montmartre. I have seen many days of misery. All those who did not want to take the oath to the Empire met difficulties.
But I was more favoured than many others, being able to give music and drawing lessons after school. What, moreover, is physical suffering in the face of the loss of those who are dear to us?
O my friend! My dear mother! My brave companions!
Stirring these memories, I turn the dagger. It often feels good. If any being had invented life, what a horrible chain we should have attached to it. I would like to know what those who thank Providence believe; it is a very convenient word and very empty of meaning, and the work of this omnipotence would be frightfully criminal.
I believe that, as we have discovered so many other things, we will one day discover the principles of number and affinities which group together spheres and beings. It will have to come that tamed nature serves free humanity; that science goes forward instead of lingering behind, stopped by all infallibilities. Come on, hunters of the unknown! The legendary stage will open the road! Down with all the fortresses! Let all the doors be wide open and force all the mysteries out into the open; that everything crumbles in the slaughterhouses, the lazarets where human stupidity keeps us!
I always forget that I write my Memoirs. Where was I?
There are a few handfuls of fragments of my childhood that I take at random.
Here is a description of Vroncourt kept by my mother. How many things has survived this yellowed piece of paper!
VRONCOURT
It is on the side of the mountain, between the forest and the plain where you can hear your wolves howling, but you can’t see the lambs slaughtered there. In Vroncourt we are separated from the world. The wind shakes the old steeple of the church and the old towers of the castle; it bends the fields of ripe wheat like a sea; the storm makes a tremendous noise and that is all we can hear.
This is great and this is beautiful.
No less than the legendary book Haute Marne, this work was illustrated with coal drawings by the same author.
We could see the Ladies’ Fountain there, amidst the shade of the willows on the water, and against this shade stood the white washerwomen (according to Marie Verdet’s description).
Deye, she said, it wouldn’t be worth it if you wrote a book on Vroncot and few real things were in it!
So I had put the three ghosts under the willows. There was one that spit out the past, said Marie Verdet, the other that moaned for the present and the last which cried for tomorrow.
The pale washerwomen who moan under the branches, one weeping for days gone by, the other weeping for today, the third for tomorrow, don’t they remind us of the Norns?
Another illustration of the same work represented the great Diableries of Chaumont. They are far from barbarian. They seek to reproduce the sensation produced by the moonlight, forests, snow, and night, personifying this sensation in spectral forms.
Here is a second fragment (the last) of the legendary Haute-Marne. I place it here because it contains the exact description of these septenary festivals that we called the Diableries of Chaumont.
The devils of Chaumont hold history, the novel, the legend. Devilry is a dream that existed and of which we still saw traces at the end of the last century.
Among the bizarre institutions that disappeared with the Middle Ages, the Diableries of Chaumont are among those which are the longest to survive their time.
The flag still flies when the ship is submerged. Every seven years, say the chroniclers of Champagne, twelve men are dressed as devils, as we suppose the devils get used to, using thrift stores in hell, where all the disguises are, even that of Jehovah. The devils of Chaumont find theirs with old Anne Larousse; with the Brac sign; and in a spirit of immense joy, with a pair of horns and a black hood, they accompany the Palm Sunday procession to honor the sky by representing Hell there. After having thus figured the love of God, our lords the devils spread across the countryside, where they consider they have the right to plunder to their hearts’ content for the love of the devil.
Why had they chosen this number of twelve? They say it was in honor of the Twelve Apostles, although this way of honoring them should not be infinitely agreeable to them. The scholars claimed that they meant the twelve signs of the Zodiac, while still others said that they were the image of the sons of Jacob, but none of these assumptions were generally adopted. There arose at each Diablerie between the scientists, clerics and astrologers of the good town of Chaumont, a number of quarrels which, emptying themselves of quill, spent so much on parchment that a multitude of souls paid for these combats with their lives.
Still, the Messieurs of the Diableries sang Quis est iste rex gloriæ with as much enthusiasm as those who wore costumes could have done, but with less finesse, the devil having an essentially musical ear.
Chanmont’s devilry lasted from Palm Sunday to the Nativity of Saint John, and ended with the main actions in the life of this saint represented in ten theaters exposed to the devotion of the faithful. The party ended with a torture (there could be no celebration without that in those times, and even in ours!) The torture was usually only an effigy which represented the soul of Herod.
But the last year that these holy orgies were held had an event which hastened their end. This event (not recounted in the written chronicles) did not give Marie Verdet a shadow of a doubt in her retelling. Her grandfather heard it, who had gotten it from a great-grandmother. Apparently this last time, Herod’s soul had gesticulated so beautifully that the assistants were throwing themselves into the valley of the schoolchildren, and then all of a sudden the shadows fell, and the effigy began to moan. They cried A Miracle!, particularly when they found charred bones in the ashes of the pyre the following day.
But, if they found bones in the ashes, they could also no longer find the handsome singer Nicias Guy, who, out of love’s revenge, had been so badly killed.
Even though my ability to rhyme might have been ancestral, who also would not have become a poet in this country of Champagne and Lorraine, where the winds blow in bardits of revolt or love! Through the great winter snows, in the sunken lanes full of hawthorns in spring, and in the deep black woods with enormous oaks and aspens, their trunks like columns, we still follow the paved paths of the dominating Romans, unpaved in large places by the undefeated Gauls.
Yes, there, everyone is a bit of a poet.
I think again of Nanette and Josephine, these country girls, who were like nature. One of their songs, the nâgé na du bas (the black bird of the woods) came back to me in the cyclones. Here it is, and here is mine, made over there at the bottom of the sea; we will find there the same cord, the black cord, which vibrates at the bottom of nature. Theirs is more mysterious and sweeter; you can smell the roses of the rose hedge; but, with the same breath, the bird of the wild field strikes its melancholy notes and thunders the flood hitting the reefs.
AGÉ NA DEU CHAMP FAUVE
Dans l’champ fanné c’etot
Un bel âgé chantot.
Teut na il étot
Il fo y brâchot.
Ka ki dijot l’âge,
L’âge deu champ fauvé?
C’étot pa les échos
Sous les âpres du bos,
Li bise pleurut
Deven lu brâchot
Ce que dijot l’âgé
L’âgé den champ fauvé?
Word for word translation
THE BLACK BIRD OF THE FAUVE FIELD
In the wild field it was.
A beautiful bird was singing.
All black he was.
So loudly he sobbed.
What did the bird say,
The bird of the wild field?
It was through the echoes.
Under the trees of the woods.
The wind was crying,
With him sobbed
What the bird said;
The bird of the wild field.
Is it worth it, after that, to put my stanzas? Let the reader pass them please. They are there only because of the link which exists between them and the couplets of the black bird of the wild field.
ON THE WATERFRONT
Strange voices of nature,
Breezes in the woods,
Breath of the will in the masts
Blind force mighty voices!
Storms, thunderstorms,
What do you say, chasms of ages,
Breaths of breezes in the woods?
The cyclone howls, the sea roars,
The sky has burst; all the wave
Pour into the dark tomb.
The sea cuts through the shore,
Blow, blow, O stormy winds.
Night fills the earth and the water.
The earth quivers, the soil smokes
In the middle of the immense night.
The sea, with its claws of foam,
Climbs up to the rocks with a loud noise.
One day, for his supreme works,
The man will take your very strength
Nature, in the great night.
All your power, oh nature,
And, your fury and your love,
Your living force and your murmur,
We will take them from you some day.
As a tool for his work,
We will carry from beach to beach
Your fury and your love.
I am afraid of spending too long this first part of my life, where events were so calm. So tormented by dreams are the days of yesteryear; childish things will be there. It is the first years of all human existence (and even in the whole course of existence). I will finish it promptly (but I may come back to it, brought on by something in the course of the story…)
In writing, as in speaking, I often get carried away! Then, the pen or the word sets off, pursuing its own goal through life, as across the world.
I spoke of ancestry. There, at the bottom of my life, are legendary tales, dead with those who told them to me. But still today, like sphinxes, I see these phantoms: Corsican witches; mermaids with green eyes; feudal bandits; Jacques and Teutons with red hair; Gallic peasants, tall with blue eyes. Everyone, from the Corsican bandits to the judges in the Parliament of Brittany, each who are in love with the unknown. All transmitting to their descendants (legitimate or bastard) the heritage of the bards.
Perhaps it is true that every drop of blood transmitted by so many different races ferments and boils in the secular spring; but through so many legends told without one having been written, what is there for sure?
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 5
A few notes on my native country.
The plow brings to light the stone coffins of our fathers the Gauls, the knife to slaughter the victim and the Roman incense. The plowman, accustomed to these finds, turns them aside (sometimes to make a trough from the coffin, or to perfume the enormous stump which burns under his great fireplace with the augural incense) and he continues to sing his oxen, while behind him the birds pick up worms in open furrows.
How I like to think of this little corner of the earth! I would have liked, if my mother had been able to survive my absence, to spend a few peaceful days near her, as I should have: with me working near her armchair, and the old Caledonian cats purring in the hearth.
So many others live for so long. These days are not for us.
Let’s talk about Haute-Marne. It had its kingdom of Yvetot, in the county of Montsongeon (the kingdom of Haut-Gué). Between three rivers which make it resemble an island, at the foot of the mountains dominated by its fortress, Montsongeon had its armies which, in the wars of Lorraine, gained victories.
In Montsongeon, as is always in a place of war, the doors were closed. That of Dom Marius overlooked the countryside, while the others looked on the Saone, the Tille and the Vingeance. But the little kingdom was so often sold and resold that eventually wren-bowls were larger than the vines of their hillsides. It was further eroded because their beautiful ladies, too, often needed a little money for gifts or other things. And then there were also the donations to the abbeys, in atonement of the crimes that the lords were accustomed to committing.
As an example, a Senhor with bad intentions would spend his stolen sum as follows: one half would be donated to the clergy, another half would be donated to atone for the sin of stealing the sum, and then, to be absolutely sure, he would also give grazing rights to one hundred sols of land to the monks of Auberive. Another time, another person and his wife – both in dire need of money – sold everything they owned in Boissey and other places. The kingdom crumbled towards the end of the 13th century.
The name of Montsongeon has been the subject of scholarly discussion. Some believe it derives from the priests of Mars (the Saliens).
“Deyé,” said Marie Verdet. “Gué bée temps que c’étot tenlé qu’on ellot cueilli lé méledes mâme que Mme Bourelle de Langres en cueillit pou se remedes gné par cent ans.” (When the weather is good you can collect sage to make a remedy for Mme Bourelle de Langres that’s been used for a hundred years.”) Perhaps Marie Verdet was right.
In Beurville, on the Ceffondret stream, it’s a love story that we set up. Around 1580, at the time of the wars of religion, Nicolas de Beurville, leader of the armed bands that ran the country, loved the beautiful Anne de Hault, the daughter of Sire Girard de Hault, and as is the custom between people who are defended, she loved him in return. But if it seemed that their marriage was impossible, Anne de Hault found a way. When the country was in terror of the bands of Beurville, she requested that her father be asked to sacrifice her for the peace of the territory.
A panicked deputy came to beg the father, and if necessary demand, that Nicolas be offered his beautiful Anne in marriage with a large dowry, on the condition that he would go to another country to plunder the poor people for the maintenance of his business. That’s what was done. Beurville went to plunder elsewhere, and the day having come when he had something to repent in peace, the two spouses rebuilt Sainte-Colombe and lived happily. The legend does not say if it was the same with their vassals.
Now see the long street on the steep rock of Cona, and tombs under the ruins of a chapel at the bottom of the mountain, so numerous that they form a nest, the ‘nest of death’. It is Bourmont surrounded by some bluish hills. Some are crowned with forests. At the top of one of them, there is a hermitage which has three legends: the first legend says it is the birthplace of the devil; the second legend says the good Lord, and the third, that it was the site of a great love between a shepherd and the beautiful Marguerite, daughter of Rénier de Bourmont.
After the siege of La Mothe, after which a clock and other curious things were brought to Bourmont, the ruins of La Mothe were used there. Bourmont was then so poor from the obligation to feed people starved by war that the people, quasi-beggars, obtained permission to sell their bells.
Now Bourmont is truly becoming a city. Of Langres and Chaumont, I won’t say much that we know. From the Chaumont viaduct, which crosses the Val des Écoliers, everyone has seen the old town of Mont Chauve. From the railroad, in the same way, one sees Langres on its rock with its black ramparts.
An old quarrel, especially a quarrel of proverbs and songs, existed between Langres and Chaumont.
In Chaumont they said of Langres:
Up high on these rocks,
Half mad, half enraged
In Langres, we said of Chaumont, between couplets by the hundreds, this one:
At Langres it’s cold here, we say,
But it’s hot in Chaumont.
Because when the wind wants to blow,
We catch it straight away,
Because when the wind wants to blow,
The door, we close it.
Formerly, around Chaumont, a young man sat silently for years under the mantle of the fireplace on a Sunday, without daring to express his desire to ask the girl of the house to marry him.
“Bonjour, everyone!” he said on entering. They offered him a chair. After long hours he would get up and say, “Bonsoir everyone,” and leave until the following Sunday.
When, red to the ears, he dared to make his marriage request of the girl, she would not respond in words, but show him through how she tended the fire. If she accepted, she brought the logs together so that the fire flamed higher. If she refused, she allowed the fire to die down to embers. In the latter, the answer would be discreetly understood, while in the case of the former, the parents would begin arranging the wedding. Even today, young people will sit silently in the home of the beloved for a long time before daring to propose to their beloved.
Formerly, near the fortress of the country (châté pïot), people would conjure the spirits of the ruins with a silver coin, a sharp knife, a white shirt and a lighted candle.
Why the silver coin? I asked.
And Marie Verdet, lowering her voice, replied: “For the devil!”
And the lit candle?
“It’s for the good Lord.”
And the white shirt?
“For the dead.”
What about the knife with the sharp blade?
“For the person carrying out the ceremony if he fails in his loyalty.”
In his loyalty to whom?
“To the unknown, to the ghost-in-flames.”
And the forest du Der (des Chênes), shall we say nothing of that? (The invader’s foot had never trodden it, there are no remnants of the Romans here.)
The entire forest of du Der (or Dèrff) was sacred. The thick shade of oaks still reigns there. Formerly, in historical times, an outlaw took refuge there, in a den. He was hunted like a beast, and lived there too, like a beast of human flesh.
The Merovingian swine-keepers built lake farms there; debris remains in the Mare-aux-Loups. In the pond of Blanchetane there remains the remnants of a Cretaceous sea which, on its arid shores that stretch as far as the Pont-aux-Bœufs farm, does not even have a heather, but rather sand, lifted by the wind in small waves.
How nice it is, in our woods, to hear amidst the profound silence the heavy hammer of the forges; the sharp blows of the axe which makes the branches shiver; the songs of birds and the roaring of insects under the leaves.
In the autumn, with my mother and my aunts, we went far into the forest. Suddenly we heard twigs breaking. It was some poor old woman collecting her bundle of twigs.
Hey little one! le gâde as té palé? Vès t’en, pa lé quiche de lé tranche, si le gâde passot tu chanteros! faut que je fée mes écouves (balais)
How few collected these birch twigs, in the great woods!
Other times, it was the sounds of a wild boar returning to the thickets, or poor deer fleeing like lightning. One would have said that they felt the coming of the autumn hunts where they slaughter, to the sound of the horn, so many poor doe, weeping over the green leaves. The beast destroys to live, while the hunter destroys to destroy. The ancestral beast awakens.
Now the days of my childhood are sketched out, and here, stretched out on the table, is the corpse of my life, being dissected at leisure.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 6
When death befell the house, making the hearth deserted; when those who had raised me were lying under the pines of the cemetery; I had to begin my preparation for my teacher examinations.
I wanted my mother to be happy. Poor woman.
My inheritance left me with a tutor (Mr. Voisin, former justice of the peace of Saint-Blin, just as if he had been administering a fortune), my mother as guardian, and Mr. Girault, a notary in Bourmont, who was designated as my secondary tutor. It was not too much, they said, to prevent me from immediately spending the eight or ten thousand francs (in land) which I inherited.
They are far away now. I see in my mind only one parcel of these lands; it was a small wood planted by my mother herself, on the side of the house where the vineyards were. She looked after them during her long stay in Haute-Marne, staying near to her own mother while I worked as an assistant teacher in Paris; that is to say, until around 1865 or 1866. The happiness of living together was ours for only a short time.
“Things have tears,” said Virgil. I can feel it when I think of the little wood and the vine soaked in my mother’s sweat.
From there, we could see Suzerin’s wood with the red roof of the farm. The blue mountains of Bourmont; Vroncourt, the mills, the castle. A sea of wheat, waving in the wind. At least, that’s how I imagined to myself that the sea would look, and later, when I saw the sea, I would discover that it was true.
My grandmother Marguerite wanted to see the vineyard before she died: my uncle carried her there in his arms. The Prussians, passing as all the conquerors pass, later cut down the wood and destroyed the vineyard. A small hut was in the middle; I believe they burned it, making a fire to warm themselves with the trees. My mother had to sell the land during my stay in Caledonia, to pay off the debts made by me during the Siege, which were claimed from her.
Back to the past.
My education, apart from the three months spent at Lagny during the 1851 holidays, was given by my grandparents in Vroncourt, and by Mmes Beths and Royer in their regular courses at Chaumont (Haute-Marne).
It was during the vacation of 1851 that we went, my mother and I, to spend a few months with my parents in the vicinity of Lagny. There, my uncle, who did not like to see me write, and always imagined that I would leave try teacher studies to study poetry, placed me, to be quieter on the subject, at the boarding school of Mme Duval de Lagny , where his daughter had been brought up; I was a boarder there for about three months.
In this house, as in Chaumont, we lived for books. The real world stopped on the threshold, and we were passionate about the bits of science which the teachers gave us in crumbs, and which were only ever just enough to make you thirsty for the rest.
The lack of time! This was before 71. It held all the tortures of the life of a teacher. Before graduation we were grappling with an enormous program, and afterwards, we realised that we knew nothing!
Of course it wasn’t news: the living springs where one would have liked to quench their thirst are not for those who have to struggle for existence. I would have liked, while continuing my studies, to remain in Paris as a vice principal; many did. But then I did not want to be separated from my mother and so, with her, I returned to Haute-Marne, near my grandmother Marguerite.
This is why, in January 1853, I began my career as a teacher at Audeloncourt (Haute-Marne), where some of my family on my mother’s side lived.
My great-uncles, Simon, Michel, and Francis – who was called Uncle Frankfort – were still living; their thick red hair did not even have silver threads. They were tall and handsome old men, with strong shoulders, powerful heads, simple of heart and quick in intelligence, who, like my mother’s brothers, had learned, I do not know how, a host of things, and who were eloquent speakers and learners. A great-grandfather had once bought a whole library by the weight. It held old tomes illustrated with images of Homer calling down the clouds on his ancient characters. The legend between these pages seemed so alive that my great-uncles took some of them as their own. There were also volumes of rudimentary science, and ancient novels that had been subjected to the censorship of kings. The a’s were still replaced by the o’s.
I heard about it with so much enthusiasm that I too regretted the books that were subsequently stripped of pages, or lost. The novels had worn out in the evening gatherings where the reader would wet her thumb to turn the pages, and cried a rain of tears on the pages as she read about the misfortunes of the heroes within.
Our village gatherings occurred in the house. On winter evenings, women and young girls would meet to spin, knit, and above all, to tell or listen to the old stories of the ghost-in-flames who dances in a robe of flames in horsetails across the meadows.
These vigils still last today; some storytellers charm the audience so well that the evening lasts until midnight. Then, trembling a little under the emotional impression of the story, some would walk the others back to their more-distant homes, hearing their friends reassurances. The snow spreads white, it is cold, and frost like the flowers in May covers the branches.
Perhaps this library helped to launch my mother’s side of the family, where nobody was rich enough to be educated, into the custom of self-study.
My mother’s brothers drew from it. Uncle Georges had astonishing historical knowledge. Uncle Michel had a passion for mechanics which I abused as a child, having brought him down to making a small cart for me, and a thousand other objects. I put this knowledge to good use during the war of 1870, in formulating some of our defences.
I loved my uncles very much, whom I brazenly called Georges and Fanfan until the day when my grandmother told me that it was very bad to treat your elders with so little respect. My third uncle, who was coming back from military service, had picked up or kept old books that had a taste for travel, and had a fair appreciation of many things, especially discipline. It provided him with reflections which he was far from believing myself capable of understanding. At the bottom of everything, discipline sprouts anarchy.
This uncle died in Africa many years ago.
Since I have gone back to my childhood days, let me look at that time again (if the book is too long you can skip the pages).
Here is the old mill on the road to Bourmont, at the bottom of a wild hill. The grass is thick and cool in the meadow bordering the pond. The reeds make noise, crumpled by ducks or blown by the wind. In the mill, the first room is dark, even in broad daylight; it was there that Uncle Georges read every evening.
How many things he learned from reading like this! All, alive and dead: here they are in the place of yesteryear.
Here they are, all the dear buried old relatives of Vroncourt, like bards; the sisters of my grandmother Marguerite, with their white headdresses, the kerchief fastened to the neck by a pin, and the square bodice, in the peasant costume that they kept coquettishly since the time of their youth (where they were called beauties) until their death. Their names were simple like them: Marguerite, Catherine, Apolline.
Of my mother’s two sisters, one, my aunt Victoire, was with us at Audeloncourt; the other, my aunt Catherine, was around Lagny; both of them, like my mother, had that absolute neatness; that luxury of cleanliness which, from their hairbands to their tiptoes, never had the shadow of a stain, nor a speck of dust.
How they live deeply in my heart!
In the early youth of my aunt Victoire, missionaries preaching at Audeloncourt had left behind a religious fanaticism which drew many young girls to the convent. My aunt was one of them, but after having been a novice sister at the Langres hospice, her health was broken by prolonged fasting. It forced her to return home, and it was at this time that she began to live near us, in Vroncourt, where she stayed until the death of my grandparents.
She was very tall, her face a little thin, and features fine and regular. I never heard of a more ardent missionary than my aunt; she had taken from Christianity everything that captures the imagination: dark hymns, the evening visits to churches drowned in shadow, and the lives of virgins which make one think of the Druidesses, the Vestals, the Valkyries. All her nieces were drawn into this mysticism, and I, even more easily than the others. It is a strange feeling that I still feel! I listened to both my exalted Catholic aunt and Voltairean grandparents. I searched, moved by strange dreams, as a compass needle, panicked by cyclones, seeks north. My north was the Revolution.
Fanaticism descended from dreams into reality; my life, at no charge, went away in the Marseillaises of the end of the Empire. When we had time to tell each other the truths, my friend Théophile Ferré told me that I was consecrated to the Revolution. It was true. Weren’t we all fanatics? All the avant-gardes are like this.
Let us come back to my school in Audeloncourt, opened in January 1853. They called it a ‘free school’, because to belong to the regular education system at that time meant that I would have have taken an oath to the Empire.
I was not lacking in courage. I even harboured the illusion of giving my mother a happy future. However, the least amount I could take for tutoring was one franc (a relatively large sum for workers). Not having reached the required age to have boarders, I was obliged to place my students from other villages with the parents of the Audeloncourt students.
In spite of the denunciations of some imbeciles on this subject, and on my political opinions, my class worked all the better, because I had the zeal of youth. I did my job with passion. The friends of order, who deigned to take care of me, called me “red”, that is to say, republican, and were bitter that I was thinking of going to Paris, something they should not have been angry about, if my views of the world bothered them. But the accusation was perfectly true. I had barely glimpsed Paris, and it already attracted me; I thought it was only in Paris that a person could fight the Empire. Paris called me so strongly that I could feel its magnetism.
These denunciations which disturbed the peace of my poor mother gave me a trip to Chaumont. I saw my boarding house there again, along with my teachers and the friends with whom, in the past, I did mischief to nasty people. I remember having, made a great stir with my friend Clara when one day, we decided to make a mysterious mark in red chalk on everybody’s doors. We were laughing, because some of our anxious critics saw an equilateral triangle in it (a little elongated), while others saw an unknown instrument of torture. Those who were not at all interested in the affair saw a big donkey’s ear. These last people were right.
I see the old rue de Choignes in Chaumont, or as it was then, the Boulingrin, where the executioner lives; the viaduct covering the whole of the Ecoliers valley. The Sucot bookstore, containing everything that could tempt me, and where, whether teacher or student, I was always in debt. M. Sucot’s big, curly head gazed through the windows in the midst of luxury stationery, new books, and music from Paris.
It reminded me of my childhood dazzlement in front of the Guerre bookstore in Bourmont. I have not yet lost this impression in front of certain shelves of books.
After each denunciation I was supposed to stay two days at Chaumont, but these days ended when I arrived. I went to the rector of the academy, M. Fayet, and there, sitting beside him as I had once sat with my grandparents by the ashes of the hearth, I explained about the denunciations sent against me, saying that everything was true, that I wanted to go to Paris, that I was a Republican and that, as for the boarders placed with the parents of my students in Audeloncourt, it was like this because those families had had the idea to support one another, and they had come up with the idea themselves. I laughed as I did in my childhood days, but in speaking of study, my passion which called me to Paris for the republic, and my loves, I let my heart open.
The rector looked at me in silence for a long time before answering me, and his wife, who always took my side, smiled as free-range doves flew through the sunny room. It smelled of spring; of home; in all seasons and in the morning at all hours. In my Audeloncourt class we sang the Marseillaise before the morning study and after the evening study.
The children’s stanza
We will enter the quarry
When our elders are no longer there
One of the youngest was said to be on her knees, singing it alone (it was a little brunette called Rose and whom we called Taupette because of the glossy black of her hair).
By taking over the choir we often wept a rain of tears, both the children and I. I rediscovered this feeling in Noumea the last year of my stay in Caledonia. It was July 14, at that time I was in charge of drawing and singing in the girls’ schools in the city. Mr. Simon, the acting mayor, wanted the children to sing the Marseillaise, between the two evening cannons, in the open kiosk on the Place des Cocotiers.
Night had suddenly fallen; there is neither twilight nor dawn in these regions. The palm trees rustled gently, stirred by the wind; the girandoles lit up the kiosk a little, leaving in the shade the place where you could feel the crowd; a black and white crowd. In front of the kiosk, there was military music.
Mrs. Penand, the first lay teacher who came to the colony, was standing near me, as well as an artilleryman who was to sing with us, and the children in a circle surrounded us.
After the first cannon shot there was such silence that the heart stopped beating. I felt our voices hovering in this silence. It felt like being carried away by great wing strokes; the high-pitched chorus of children, the copper thunder which cut through the stanzas, all of this gripped you. This rhythm which carried our fathers, the Marseillaise, we liked it very much.
On our return from Caledonia, we found the sacred hymn used in all kinds of ways. Scarcely healed from the mire in which it had been dragged during the last days of the Empire, the Marseillaise played as it was now, was dead for us. There are still other songs that we love; in the vigils of arms, at the time of the siege and of the Commune, we often sang. With friends in London, on their return from Caledonia, I found our songs.
Little man, can’t you hear
This refrain of a French song?
This refrain, it’s the Marseillaise…
The square of the dead seemed wide to us then. How much wider it is today.
The sound of clogs in my prison reminds me of other clogs sounding sad or cheerful in Audeloncourt on Sundays; little black clogs clattering hurriedly towards the door of the church when they sang the song Dominate, salvum fuc Napoleonem. I had told the children that it was a sacrilege to attend a prayer for the Emperor. And now the little black clogs run, run in a hurry, making a gentle snap like hail, the same little snap that the bullets made, on January 22, 1871, when they rained down from the windows of the Hôtel de Ville on the unarmed crowd.
Later I heard other clogs ringing sadly, big and heavy, on the tired feet of the prisoners of Auberive. They rang with a sad cadence on the frozen ground, while the silent file passed slowly in front of the pines laden with snow. From Audeloncourt, I sent verses to Victor Hugo; we had seen him, my mother and I, in Paris, in the fall of 1851, and he replied from exile as he had formerly replied from Paris, to my nest in Vroncourt, and at my boarding house in Chaumont. I also sent some operas to the Chaumont newspapers.
I have fragments of some of them, less fragile than the cherished hands which preserved them for me. From these serials I quote a sentence, which drew on me the accusation of insulting his Majesty the Emperor, a well-deserved accusation, moreover, and which could have also been motivated by many other sentences.
This soap opera, a story of martyrs, began like this:
Domitian reigned; he had banished the philosophers and scientists from Rome, increased the pay of the Praetorians, re-established the Capitoline Games, and the merciful emperor was worshipped while waiting to be stabbed. For some, the climax is before; for the others it is after: that is all.
We are in Rome, in the year 95 of Jesus Christ.
I was summoned to the prefect, who told me,
“You insulted His Majesty the Emperor by comparing him to Domitian. If you were not so young, we would be entitled to send you to Cayenne.”
I replied that those who recognized M. Bonaparte in the portrait of Domitian insulted him just as much, but that in fact it was he whom I had in view. I added that, as for Cayenne, it would have been pleasant for me to establish an educational center there, and not being able to cover the travel expenses myself, that it would, on the contrary, be a great pleasure for me to go.
The matter rested there!
Some time later, a fellow who wanted to ask – I do not know what favour – at the prefecture, came to find me, telling me,
Risque c’est mé que je le demande ka ke cé vo fait! beyez toujo.
He had seen that the prefect had requested me there. In vain I objected to him that I had been summoned before the prefect only to judge me, and threaten me with deportation to Cayenne, and that my recommendation would not make him come; on the contrary. But the man did not budge.
I ended up writing to the prefect on his behalf, more or less in these terms:
Monsieur le préfet,
The person to whom you have been kind enough to promise a trip to Cayenne is tormented by Father X to give you a letter of recommendation.
I have not been able to make him understand that this is the way to get him kicked out; he is as stubborn as an ass.
May he not learn, at his expense, that I was right to refuse.
Please, Monsieur le Préfet, do not forget the trip in question for me.
Seeing the good man return after his expedition from Chaumont, I admit that I was already laughing at the troubles he was going to relate to me when, to my great surprise, he said to me,
“Hey! I’m going great! You were lucky for me; I have the thing I asked!”
It was he, rather, who was lucky!
From my class in Audeloncourt, you could hear the sound of water over and over again; during the summer the stream descended, murmuring; during the winter it coursed in torrential furies.
Who is listening to this stream now, in the dark house where I was surrounded by attentive pupils, as one is in the villages, where no distraction comes from outside? I could still call them all by name, from little Rose, to the big one, who is a teacher today. Eudoxie died in my arms, a year into an epidemic.
And Zelie, the sister of Clefmont’s messenger! I loved her doubly, because she bore the name of a friend of Vroncourt, long mourned, and because of her vivid imagination. The messenger and his sister were orphans. He was the eldest of the family and, at a very young age, took the place of their dead parents. He had wanted his sister to attend my school; in my travels from Audeloncourt to Chaumont we talked about a host of things that interest people who like to read a lot.
Never did I have a more serious conversation than that day when I returned, still having in my pocket the red chalk that I had used to mark the doors of nasty people, with my friend Clara. I used it to make the same drawing on the back of a traveler who was trying to praise Bonaparte, and who I made tremble by saying,
“It will be necessary that the Republic comes. We are numerous and daring!”
At each point, new figures climbed or descended, some dressed in blue linen blouses, with staff suspended from their wrist by a small leather strap, and a cherry snuffbox in their pocket. Others were covered with clothes so rarely worn that the folds were traced there as by a press.
The road is long from Chaumont to Audeloncourt; it turns in a spiral around Mont Chauve, descends by the most gentle slope, and finally sets off, unwinding its folds through villages still covered with thatch, to the woods of the Sueur, where, under the low branches of twisted apple trees, are the collapsed roofs of a small inn where, in the past, travelers were slaughtered. They say that the old people of the country who entered there a little over a century ago rarely came out.
Am I wrong to stay so long in these eras? I thought I would do it quickly and let go of my memories. A few more pages, perhaps, will be devoted to Haute-Marne.
Some friends tell me Tell me a lot about your time in Haute-Marne. Others say Spend only a little time on those peaceful days, and give more detail to what came after.
Between the two opinions, I am obliged to listen to neither one nor the other, and relate things as they come to me.
I have already removed many childish pages for others. I do not remove them for me, because they allow me to see once more those beloveds who loved me.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 7
Destiny, its wings folded like a chrysalis, awaits the hour to deliver these mornings of life to the wind which tears them; such were my years in Haute-Marne.
Some destinies follow each other first and then take opposite routes. I first met my friend Julie at my boarding school in Chaumont. We taught together in Haute-Marne, and again worked together as teachers in Paris, at Mme Vollier’s. But then came historical events, and she remained a stranger to them, and so our lives moved in different directions.
But before that, long before, at a time while we were on vacation, we swore in the great woods, under the Oak of Oaths, an eternal friendship, and neither of us has failed that promise.
Even in Paris, Julie was mainly occupied with study, and the hatred I felt for the Empire left her unmoved; music and poetry were more her passions. We have a long time
At Mme. Millières, we had for a long time a piano that served as an organ. We sung together around it on spring evenings; I was a bit of an organist there, until my departure for Paris in 1855 or 1856. Julie, at that time, had the voice of a forest nightingale. Two bodies who drew only themselves as their resources could hardly exist one near the other in this country without meeting; that’s what we did, Julie and me. But I was always thinking of Paris, I was the first to go there; she came to meet me at Mme Voilier’s, 14, rue du Château-d’Eau. My mother, from that moment until the death of her mother, lived in Vroncourt, in this house on the rise near the cemetery, of which I must have spoken.
From there, we could hear the wind in the pines which shaded our dear graves; we could see the peaks, heavy with snow, during the winter. When I think of Haute-Marne, nowhere do I see so much as the frost season; I have never felt, except in the polar seas, a more bitter cold.
I suffered a lot leaving my mother and grandmother alone, but the hope of giving them a happy future had not yet abandoned me; I must have kept the illusion of it for a long time.
From that time, until the death of Mme Vollier four years before the Siege, Julie and I never left each other in my school in Montmartre.
Her portrait is with the dear memories that the police search found, because my mother kept them carefully for me; half-effaced portraits, books eaten away by worms, withered flowers, red carnations and white lilacs, branches of yew and fir; there would now be, in addition, the white roses with drops of blood that I sent her from Clermont.
It was among the debris hidden in the old furniture, and the memories too, that my mother was waiting for me, poor woman; but from the six years of my penal sentence, she could only wait two.
Today, the school room at Montmartre room is inhabited by strangers, but, as in the house near the cemetery of Vroncourt, I like to see it again for a moment now, in my mind. The last time I saw Vroncourt, it was during the holidays of 1865. I had with me Mme Eudes (who was then known as Victorine Louvet). She was very young, then sixteen or seventeen, and working for her teaching exams. The joy of my mother and my grandmother in seeing me again was as great as mine was to see them.
it seemed to us that the holidays should always last forever. But they were soon over! When I left these two poor women I dared not turn my head, for my heart was breaking apart, but it was the moment when the struggle against the Empire was intensified and each person had to keep their place, however small.
It seemed to us that the Republic should cure all the ills of humanity; it is true that we see it as social and egalitarian.
I never saw my grandmother Marguerite again. Victorine still spoke to me about that autumn during the illness from which she died young, on her return from exile after the Commune.
We went into the woods together. I had shown her the Oak of Oaths, and the old castle still standing; she went with my mother into the vineyard, which was then full of young trees of all kinds that my mother had planted there.
One evening when we were following the forest from Thol to Clefmont, going to Uncle Marchal, the old forester who married his daughter, the steady trot and luminous eyes of a she-wolf followed us all the way.
This made us a stage setting for the Legend of the Oak:
THE OAK
She is standing under the big oak tree,
Under the great thirty-year-old oak tree.
Twigs of red verbena
Entwine her flowing hair.
In the forest with black shadows,
Endless silence reigns.
The bards are singing; the druids
Will stretch out their linen tablecloth.
For a long time the echo of their supreme songs
Vibrates after the song is silent,
And the lutes ring out for themselves,
The fallen spectral branch.
Wide cuts on oak
Shed the blood of the white bull;
But the victim, in his grief,
Lets out a sad moan.
Before a sinister omen,
The priestess speaks to fate.
On the horizon, rumbling with storm,
It takes a human sacrifice,
A voluntary sacrifice.
He who comes is still young.
He wants his blood on earth
Released from his heart with a golden scythe.
Standing under the scary night,
How beautiful he was for death!
Who then made you, O bloody death,
Death of the martyrs, the most beautiful fate?
The quivering druid
Strikes him, then herself, with the golden scythe,
And falls dying beside him,
Having struck herself in the heart again.
As a talisman on the breasts.
In ancient Gaul,
With the sweep of the ravines
Their ashes remained on their bones.
It was the time when every slave
Rose up against the Caesars,
The time when Gaul was brave
And gathered his scattered sons.
O our fathers, proud and wild,
So heavy is your sleep!
Fathers, are there no more omens?
Have we no more ruddy blood!
You who are arming yourself, why live?
Love is stronger than death.
Shouldn’t we be free?
Happy are those who are marked by fate!
Marriage multiplies the shackles a hundredfold.
To that Tiberius with bloody eyes
Marriage gives new slaves.
Let’s not be fighters in his games.
Friends, it’s pleasant under the oaks.
The oaks keep oaths
Of love or of hate,
On your leaves of mistletoe, with drops of blood.
Such was my thought, such it is still, in respect of the calamities and tyrannies which crush the people like the grain under the millstone. We have had enough of the tortures of poor mothers without multiplying family ties by marriage; yes, then you have to be just combatants.
It is true that it was possible for me to think thus, since those who have proposed to me in marriage, while dear to me as brothers, would have been impossible as husbands. It’s hard to express why. As a woman, I set my dream very high and besides, I always felt the need to remain free for the time of the supreme struggle. And I have always regarded any union without love as prostitution. For five more years, I believed this supreme struggle was to come. Sedan had to be added to the other crimes to make the cup overflow. We always wait for the cup to overflow like an ocean, for the same reason that we are never moved by misfortunes as long as we could prevent them.
I still hold the memory of two ridiculous beings, old men who, following each other like geese or specters, had one after the other asked my grandparents for my hand in marriage when I was aged between twelve to thirteen. This fact alone would have kept me away from marriage if I had not already been against it.
The first gentleman, a true comedy character, wanted to share his fortune (which he made to ring at each word like a bell) with a woman brought up according to his principles (that is to say, in the style of Molière’s Agnes); it was a little late to take in this method after everything I had read. The animal! It was as if he had slept for a hundred or two hundred years and come to recite this to us when he woke up.
I was allowed to answer myself. That day, I had just read with my grandfather his old edition of Molière. The suitor made me feel so amused to be setting me up as Agnes that I found a way to slip a large part of the scene where she said,
The little cat is dead!
I even told him that, word for word. He didn’t understand!
So, in desperation, I looked him squarely in the face, and with Agnes’ naivety, I brazenly told him, “Monsieur, is the other one made of glass too?” (He had a glass eye). My parents seemed a little embarrassed to me; he, with his eye that was not made of glass, gave me a poisonous look; he no longer wanted to make me his fiancée.
At that time I was growing a lot, my dress was very short, I had an apron full of tears and my toad net was in my pocket; I regretted not having a few pass adroitly into his, but there was no need for that; he did not return.
Molière also inspired me for the second of these funny individuals. They didn’t know each other, I think, and yet the two made a pair. This second one had the same idea of having a very young fiancé who he could mould like soft wax for a few years before offering her as a sacrifice.
Have you noticed how many beings go two by two, three by three, like stars that revolve around each other? There was something fun about these two double stars, but laughter destroyed the impression.
This second one, I gave him this speech, more or less:
“You see what is there on the wall? (It was a pair of stag horns.) Well! I don’t love you, I will never love you, and if I married you I wouldn’t like it any more than Mrs. Georges Dundin. You would wear horns on your head a hundred thousand feet higher than those ones there!”
He never came back, convinced that I was telling him the truth, but I was once again recommended to be more reserved when I quoted the old authors.
Some time later my grandfather, returning in Bourmont’s messenger carriage, met a third maniac who said to him, pointing to Vroncourt:
“You see that old rat nest?”
“Yes,” said my grandfather. “Well?”
“There lives there an old man there,” said the man. “A man who is raising his grandchildren for the prison and the scaffold.”
“Ah really?”
“Yes sir. Lately my friend X offered to marry the odd little girl, in a few years, if her education was managed as he saw fit.”
“Well?”
“Well, he let her answer what she wanted; she said things so horrible that my friend doesn’t want to repeat them. If I had a daughter like that I would put her in a reformatory. An odd little girl who won’t have a dime! Well where are you going?”
“I am getting out at Vroncourt; I am the old man who you’ve been speaking about!”
And to think that there are poor children who are forced to marry one of those old crocodiles! If this had been done to me, I feel that he or I would have had to go through the window. I don’t know if I told Victorine that, when I recited the Oak poem. All my life came to my heart that time, but I mostly spoke to her about my students from the country, Rose and Claire, who had become teachers; the great Estelle, like the fresh shepherdesses of Florian; the poor little Ariadne, thin, lame, withered, who absorbed a study book in a few days… and all these things had happened the day before or long ago; those that made you laugh, and those that made you cry…
Of the people who made people laugh, here are a few. I have spoken of the two Laumonts, the :”small” M. Laumont, a teacher in Ozières, and the “big” M. Laumont, a doctor in Bourmont. Both often came to the house. The “little” one always dressed in a short gray overcoat, like that a pilgrim, and carried a cane of an enormous height. He seemed not to weigh on earth; he was as great in intelligence as he was strange in manners.
The “big” one, wrapped in a loose black cloak (with which, we said, my cousin and I, he looked like a beetle), came on a heavy horse to spend time with us on Tuesdays every week. The two Laumonts were parents, the little one spent the winters with us; he had formerly given lessons to my aunt Agathe and to my mother; I think he had taught everyone to read across the whole country. The older man sometimes had his flute in his pocket, he played it perfectly.
These were the good days; my grandmother or I were at the piano, my grandfather took his bass and we played music, until we had had our fill.
This enthusiasm did not prevent me from finding time to give the famous mare an apron full of oats, which greatly changed her gait.
So the doctor left each time, swiftly in the dark evening, with his ample cloak floating around him, looked like the black rider of legends.
“Little monster,” he said to me one day, after having been two weeks without coming. “You almost made me kill myself. I spent all this fortnight in bed.”
I was so struck by it that I withdrew to weep over my impudence, beneath the cellar, where I would often go down when I had some great sorrow, so as to be in the shadows, which calmed my remorse. Then, seized with pity, my grandmother confessed to me that the big M. Laumont had only wanted to teach me a lesson, but that he had meant no harm; I was punished enough like that. The two Laumonts are remarkable figures of which I will speak at greater length.
Today I thought I had stopped talking about Vroncourt and now the pages are endlessly darkening, and I still have something to say. We will come back to this again, but first I sketch my whole life.
How much, at the end of the Empire, the terrible stanzas of Victor Hugo returned to my heart! They entered it cold as steel, and each syllable rang in my ear like a clock.
Harmodius, it’s time!
I would have slain the Emperor with ease. I would have done it because if this man were not here, millions of men would have been spared. Someone had promised me access to him. But the access I had been promised was given to me only when Bonaparte was no longer there; when he had already left for his war.
Yes, at that time, I feel that we would have avoided Sedan if Bonaparte had died, but we all have the tendency to wait for the annihilation of a multitude before acting.
Perhaps this fact will make people understand more quickly, and that knowledge of his annihilation of legions will later prevent the human race from abandoning itself any longer to these loggers of men who prune people like a forest for their good pleasure.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 8
When Julie and I were at Madame Vollier’s, we always dressed the same. We were both tall and dark-haired; we were often taken for sisters, and we were called “The Young Vollier Ladies.” In 71, when detailed information was taken about me, I had to explain this peculiarity.
Two of my cousins were then assistant headmistresses: one at Puteaux, and the other at La Chapelle. We had roughly the same income; that is to say, what a career in teaching paid at that time. We were not sadder for it; it was recognized that this was the way things were under the reign of His Majesty Napoleon III, as well as that of his predecessors. There was no situation where we had less money, but where we could just as easily do without it. We were all a little bohemian.
Mme Vollier, despite her age, knew how to laugh, as much as all women do who make a living from their work. In the face of our situation, some of our writer friends put up with much more! We all laughed together often, making light of our situation around good cups of steaming coffee.
But I was careful not to tell my mother that my income hardly matched the expenses, however small they were, in the day schools where the rent was soaring.
Having recognised that we could not afford to continue like this, but not wanting to publicise the fact, we decided to join forces: Mme Voilier, Julie and I. It was good; we signed a contract, and this also showed my mother that I was associating with good people, which put an end to people speculating things to her, such as Your daughter will never earn anything, or She spends everything; you shouldn’t send anything more to her, etc, or a cook earns ten times as much. Which of course we well knew: there was nothing to be gained from teaching! But there was still much less in any other jobs for women that were available at the time. Is the condition of women any better today? It is true that the positions of many men are hardly better!
Poor Mme Vollier, kind to us like a mother, found means to dress Julie and I nicely. I remember white crepe hats with bouquets of daisies, (the black grenadine dress, lace mantelets…) but pawn shops helped us a lot; we were dressed for a lot less than people believed. My dear mother, for her part, found a way to send me a little money which, unfortunately, I usually spent on books or music. I reproach myself for it now. But because I had signed a contract with Julie and Mme Vollier, my mother was calm, and the whispers of these imbeciles about how wrong she had been to not force me to marry had ceased with the same piece of paper. There was nothing more to say: I was associated with a Paris day school!
None of us were lazy, but the schoolhouses were on top of each other in the neighbourhood, and the rents were very expensive. As a way to make ends meet, we gave evening lessons after the classes. Mme Vollier herself also gave them, although she was already very old. She told her sons (in small part) many of the same lies that I was telling my mother. Mme Vollier hoped that, upon the demolition of No. 14 rue du Château-d’Eau, she would have an indemnity with which we could have a day school in the suburbs.
Julie, having received a small sum from her family, eventually went to settle in a populous district; she gave up her part of the association to us and bought her day school in the Faubourg Antoine. I didn’t want to follow her. Mme Vollier was old and Julie was young, but we spent our days off together: I gave music lessons there on Thursday evenings.
These details are too short, but this framework of my life would make the book less incomplete if death closed it.
“If your daughter earns so much,” they said to my mother, “how is it that she never gives you any presents?”
Worried, she came to Paris. I could not go to see her on vacation: we only have eight days off when we work in day schools, otherwise we risk losing our students. Parents, having their children at home all year round apart from school time, do not want, or cannot have them completely for more than eight to ten days. And then, how would one manage the terrible rent if there was a month without an income?
As for me, though, I was not unhappy, other than the unhappiness brought through the struggle for existence. I was young, and I admit that at recess I had great fun with the older ones. We would write dramas, which we would play for the little ones (with the sets written on the board, to enhance their understanding of the play.) Young I remained, through everything, and until the death of my mother perhaps, I always had a young heart. But since that day, not a drop of blood remains.
Now I’m uninterested in life; it’s all over, and I will meet the supreme fight (that one that we all must meet) as cold as death.
I see the students of Château-d’Eau again in groups: the group of tall girls, two or three of them: Léonie C., Aline M. and Léopoldine. Then there is the group of blonde girls: two with broad foreheads, and blue eyes of steel: Héloïse and Gabrielle. Then there was a group of girls with black eyes: Alphonsine G. and the two sisters. And a group of pale girls: Joséphine L., little Noelle, and Marie C. And the little ones, so brown that they were black: Élisa B. who, when very small, had the accentuated features of the races of the South, and Julie L., whose voice was enormous while waiting for her to grow beautiful, and Élisa R. who in my imagination plays her prize piece, not yet having the four years that Mozart had . And there are so many others, and all of them: what happened to them? There, like in Haute-Marne, as in Montmartre, as in Caledonia?
We understand why I only include their initials. Who knows if my memoirs will not one day be leafed through to be used for the arrest of those who have met me? If they might be accused of anarchy for having known me once?
We said that my worried mother had come to Paris to find out what was happening for herself. Between her and Mme Vollier, who resembled my grandmother, a lively friendship was established. What bad things they said about me, the poor women! But what a good fortnight we spent together, apart from the very evening of my mother’s arrival, when, all three of us having dinner together, I found myself so happy that it seemed inevitable that this happiness should be disturbed. I was right. A tall oaf with cross-eyes, carrying a promissory note that I had completely forgotten, suddenly presented himself at the door.
It was just when I was bragging to my poor mother (not for the pleasure of cheating on her, but to reassure her) the resolution I had taken to no longer buy so many books. While the silence of Mme Vollier did not bode well for me, the entry of this messenger gave me the most beautiful denial possible.
Then Madame Vollier, to ease my Mother, took out of her own rent money (which her sons had just given her) enough to pay for the debt. My mother returned this sum after her return to Vroncourt; she gently pointed out to me how much the buying of books had already caused her deprivation. It was a long time before I bought books again, but it was rough: there were so many publications that tempted me!
Fortunately elementary courses were there. The courses on rue Hautefeuille most often took place at ten in the evening, so one could often escape there and find the bookstores closed on returning. There, during the long nights of the Empire, we had glimpses of better times. Who would have thought then that some of these political men at the time, who spoke so well of freedom, and who blamed so many crimes on the Emperor, would be among those who wanted to drown freedom in the blood of May 71?
Power makes people dizzy; it will always give do so, until the hour when power belongs to the whole humanity.
In the lives of all individuals are the same transformations that are agitated through the centuries: in childhood, youth, and the virility of mankind. In the hours of youth, does not every human mind make cheap dreams of childhood, where it thinks to care only for itself? Then this isolated individual disappears, or no longer deigns to think stupidly of only his little person.
It did not matter then that there was no time to study sufficiently broadly and that, while we dreamt of the arts, we were only a machine for lessons. This entire time we felt that we suffered, that we were happy; and all the love, all the hatred, all the harmony, all the power that we had, we threw it all away to the scents that carried us away: we were nothing, and we were part of all of what is the Revolution.
At Mme Vollier’s I would send a few verses to newspapers, the Union des Poètes, la Jeunesse, and others, but I had already stripped down so many things that I hardly paid any attention to it all, and I often ignored what was released.
During Victor Hugo’s exile I sent to him the poems which seemed to me almost good. But the time then was already far behind us when I had formerly addressed verses from Vroncourt to him, which the indulgent master called “gentle as my age”.
I am the white dove,
The black hoop
Who, for the ark, through the grave
Looks for a branch.
What I was sending him now smelled like powder.
Do you hear the thunder of brass
Behind the balance?
The coward will betray you tomorrow!
On the mountains and on the cliff,
Come on, let’s sow freedom.
Blasted by the swept-away storm.
Come on, let’s live the Marseillaise.
Pass, pass the seas, pass the black valleys.
Let’s move on, let’s move on, so that the wheat walls fall into the furrows.
These same verses, the Marseillaise Noire, I threw one Bastille Day into the box on the counter of L’Echelle, with others addressed to Mme Bonaparte. These last, started in collaboration by Vermorel and I, had been reviewed and added to by other friends who shared with me the same disdain of rhyme, but with expressions, they said, more appropriate to the circumstance, if the word “appropriate” expresses the thing.
I believe that apart from the first verse and the last, none of the collaborators would have dared to read this piece aloud.
AIR of Malbrough
1st couplet.
Hello, Madame Bonaparte.
Mironton, etc.
How are we doing?
My faith, Monsieur,
Mironton, etc.
I’m not bad, are you?
Last verse.
Beggars, Robert-Macaires,
Mironton, etc.
Salesmen and fiddlers,
You are cheap bargains,
Mironton, etc.
Rags of the ragpickers
How many times one must have believed that the day had arrived to throw in the rags; the rags of the Empire; and still it remained. There is nothing so solid as ruins, and nothing lasts longer than rags.
Going to Julie’s on a day off, I passed a crowd walking on the boulevard. I thought that the hour had arrived. But it was Mr. J. Miot who was being taken to prison. Some of those who followed the carnival masks had left them to see this old republican taken by the servants of the Empire.
This joyful crowd on a day of mourning is not ‘the people’: it is the same crowd that we see at public executions, and whom we never find when we need someone to lift up the paving stones.
It is the heap of the unconscious masses who, without knowing it, supports tyrannies, ready to take by the throat and to drag under the water whoever wants to save them. It is the great herd which cranes its neck to the knife and bends to the whip.
Under the Empire, as at all times when nations are slaughterhouses, literature was strange; frivolous things filled the books; there were forgotten corpses behind each page, as if while writing, one had looked at Napoleon III. Everything smelled stale; house flies were swarming over the books.
The charming works of the writer Adele Esquiros slept during this time, waiting for a better moment. Sometimes she would read a few pages of her unpublished writing to us: it contained fresh loves, graceful images, which gave the impression of those spring mornings when the dew covers the flowers, where the sun shines in the branches. There were indeed a few bitter passages. But some fine jokes veiled the sadness.
What happened to all these manuscripts? I never saw them published.
It is true that between deportation and prison I had little time to visit friends. Adèle Esquiros, now, has been paralysed for several years, and as in the past, she still suffers with a smile on her lips, regardless of her fate.
One Sunday, alone at Mme Vollier’s, I was trying out arias which, I well knew, would never see the light of day, any more than my words would (perhaps reminiscent of my love for the devil). It was a fantastic opera. It was called The Dreams of the Sabbath. But I knew it would never be published.
I had bravely made up my mind on this, because I knew that it is impossible to find publishers when one is not known, and yet a person cannot be known until one has found a publisher. As a writer, you don’t amuse yourself by dragging your manuscripts into waiting rooms; you continue with your condition, whatever it may be. If we do not have any recommendations, we would rather be a rag-picker than go and seek them. We even experience a certain pleasure in throwing stanzas, patterns, and drawings to the wind. Let it all fall and fall apart under your feet, Revolution, until the day when all will unfold freely.
So I was trying out my devils, and it was the part where there is an infernal chase:
The cup is reddened,
The wine of the orgy.
Leaves, hunters,
And women and flowers
The doorbell rang. She was an old Jewish lady, straight as the ghost of a commander and still of great beauty: one would have said that her face carved in marble; she was the grandmother of one of my pupils.
“Is it really you,” she said, “who allows yourself the savagery that I have just heard?”
“But… yes, it’s me.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t dare start these horrors again in front of me. To punish you, I want to hear the rest.”
And so I started again. Certain savage motives outraged her, but she had to keep on listening, and on the other hand, she was less harsh on certain things. She loved the love songs. The skeleton ballad pleased her.
You who sing so late on the green walls of the turrets,
Young girl, open to me.
Come; I have white hands and faithful loves
And I will have flashes in my pupil-less eyes
To look again at the queen of the tournament.
At the end of the ballad, of course, the young daughter loves the skeleton and follows it into the unknown; they go into a lonely valley where no sound is heard except a solo lute. My old lady deigned to approve of the troubadour’s lament:
The bird was singing
And shuddered
Under the leaves.
And in the wind the soul flies away
Crying, crying.
The plan of the play was very simple: after the destruction of life on our planet, it becomes Hell. At first it is more comfortable. In the first act, we see that the world ended through a geological revolution; the theater represents something like a lunar landscape; Satan is seated on top of one of the buildings in Paris, the base of which, like the whole city, is buried under the lava. The love of Satan and Don Juan for the same druidess causes all the ups and downs and starts an infernal war.
All the characters that I liked in history, poetry and legends, had a place there, depending on the character. It ended with the crumbling of the globe, and the spirits assimilating to the forces of nature, whose chorus could be heard in a night crossed by lightning.
The general sound of the orchestra diminished little by little; sometimes one instrument, sometimes another, until all the instruments fell silent; there remained only a chorus of harps which themselves ceased one after the other; a single remained and then was extinguished in a pianissimo softer than the fall of water on leaves… thus the last notes were strung out, until there was silence.
There were all instruments in this piece: harmonica, harps, lyres, flutes, bugles, guitars. A chorus of devils spoke without words, but with violins (about twenty violins). For this monster orchestra, it would have required an enclosure of mountains with the spectators on the floor in the valley, or a whole bay of the new world.
After the grotesque imitation of harp notes on the piano, my Jewess looked at me with astonishment:
“Unhappily these monstrosities are from you!”
I didn’t answer.
“The most unfortunate thing is that there are some good parts there.”
“If there was nothing good in it, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to work on it,” I told her.
“But you know very well that to indulge in these kinds of things, you have to be rich or famous.”
“I don’t indulge myself. I intend to keep working as a teacher. To prove it, I will leave it as it is, this thing which cannot be performed in a theater. It is indeed a dream, whether about sabbaths or life, and so I throw it away as I have thrown away other dreams.”
She took my hand; hers was very cold.
“And your heart, where will you throw it?”
“At the Revolution.”
She sat down at the piano and, her icy hands sliding over the cold keys, she began – I do not know what – invocation to the God of Israel. One felt in her music the desert, and the calm of death, and this calm reached right into my heart.
Some time later this friend led me to the synagogue on a Saturday. The strangeness of the rites and the rhythm, a sort of grandiose Kyrie, it all took hold of me; she believed, seeing tears in my eyes, that I was touched by Jehovah’s grace.
“No,” I said to her. “It was just the impression that took hold of me, and maybe everything is so.”
I do not quite know why I detailed the Dreams of the Sabbaths at such length; I even believe that I partially transcribed it legibly to give it to our friend Charles de S. a few years before the Commune, but that also, out of laziness, I substituted for the final catastrophe an appeasement which saved me ten pages; it’s so boring to write a neat copy out again.
As of the orchestra, fading to the last note of the last harp, which the mind shatters as it goes out, none of this seemed to me worth the effort of the work.
The Revolution was dawning, what was the use of dramas? The real drama was in the streets. What good are the orchestras? We had the brass and the cannons.
We had often met with the same idea, Charles de S. and me. The last time it was about a piano whose hammers had been replaced by small bows to give the keys of the piano a little of the passion of the violin. I wrote an article about this subject which was published in Progrès Musical with the signature Louis Michel.
Several times I had the opportunity to notice that by sending a newspaper any pages signed Louise Michel, it was a hundred to one bet that it would not be published; on the contrary, if I signed it Louis Michel or Enjolras, I had much better luck.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 9
To be, as one race, is to rise and blossom in leaves and flowers.
Like unripe fruits, we may only be good to add sustenance to the soil, but those who come after will bring us the seeds of virtue and freedom.
The sap that is rising in our time of transition is powerful.
Today, human passage, through infinite vicissitudes, can only arise from revolutionary races, amidst those others who deny the imminence of the Revolution.
The slow work of evolution is finished; the chrysalis must burst through the old skin; it is the Revolution.
In all the time that humanity has been laying down with its wings enveloped, we have nonetheless sprouted new senses: the new man will no longer resemble us.
Let us die then, miserable that we are, and let our monstrous errors crumble upon us until the last; and let the human race spread out and truly live where the human flock is slaughtered.
Hail to free and strong humanity who will not understand how we have vegetated for so long, like our ancestors in the caves. Let’s no longer devour each other’s flesh (we are no longer strong enough), but instead, let’s devour our lives. Don’t the multitudes collapse today in hecatombs and countless miseries, for the good pleasure of a few, with the only difference being that with the time that has passed since our ancestors, the injustice is now bigger?
Are the peoples are not pruned like harvests? While mowing down the stubble, one shakes the grain on the ground. During human transition, every drop of blood boils in our veins; it is in this turmoil that the renewal will come. If the Revolution that rumbles under the earth left something of the old world, it would always have to be started again! So she will go away forever, this old skin of the human chrysalis. The butterfly must spread its wings, come out bleeding from its prison, or die.
Hail to the warm-blooded and robust race, in whom all will be justice, harmony, strength and light!
In these days to come, we will take the whole straight line instead of looking for millions of detours in everything, and the little flickering lights that we take for stars, which are hardly glowworms, will disappear in the clarity of daylight.
What a mess we are in, my friends. We will be swept up in this dust. Let’s at least try to make it as least stupid as possible.
While in Caledonia, I saw great trees in the Caledonian forests suddenly collapse, with a soft crackle of rotten trunk, and the little insects were exposed who had lived their quasi-eternity within the trees.
When the whirlwind of dust was gone, there was nothing left but a heap of ash on which, like cemetery wreaths, green branches lay on the last shoots of the old tree, carried away by the rest.
The myriads of insects that had multiplied there for centuries were buried in the collapse. Some, laboriously stirring in the ashes, looked, astonished, uneasily, at the daylight which would kill them, for their species, born in the shade, was not made to sustain the light.
Thus, we inhabit the old social tree, which we insist on believing to be very much alive, while the slightest breath will destroy it and disperse the ashes. No one escapes the transformations which, after a few years, have changed them until the last. Then comes the Revolution, which shakes all this in its storms.
This is where we are. The human race. And within it, those two parts of humanity: man and woman, who should walk hand in hand, and whose antagonism will last as long as the the stronger seek to command, or believes himself to command, while the other is reduced to ruses under this mystical domination, which is the only weapon of slaves. Everywhere the battle is engaged.
If equality between the two sexes were recognised, it would be a marvellous victory against human stupidity.
In the meantime, woman is still, as old Molière said, the soup of man. The stronger sex goes down to flattering the other by qualifying her as the ‘fair sex’. It’s been a damn long time since we did justice to that energy, and so far as rebels go, there are quite a few of us now, simply taking our place in the struggle without asking for it. Otherwise you would parley until the end of the world!
For my part, comrades, I did not want to be the soup of any man, and I went through life with the humble multitudes, without giving slaves to the Caesars.
She too, the humble multitudes, is subject to flattery: they call her the ‘sovereign people’.
Let’s say a few truths, too, about the so-called ‘stronger’ sex. Their power is made possible only through our cowardice, so it is much less compelling than it seems.
If the devil existed, he would know that whenever man reigns, he causes a great uproar. Women, on the other hand, govern quietly. But anything that is done in the shadows is worth nothing.
However, once this mysterious power is transformed into equality, we will see the petty vanities and the great deceptions disappear. Then there will be no more the brutality of the master, nor the disloyalty of the slave.
This cult of supposed strength goes back to cave times; it is common among the first peoples of the world.
I saw in New Caledonia, the tayos overloading their popinée, their women, their nemo, as one loads a mule. They passed proudly, carrying only the spear of the warrior, wherever they might meet someone. But if the path became deserted, if the mountain gorges tightened, then the tayo, moved with pity, would unload from his popinea the fishing net, the keulé or one of the pikininos, the children, as she sweated blood and water.
Relieved, she breathed, having only one little one left, hanging from her back, and one or two others (not attached to her skirts, she does not have any), her little one’s arm slung like a garter to the maternal knee and trotting, trotting evenly, with small, agile partridge legs.
If a shadow appeared on the horizon, even if only that of an ox or a horse of the pudoks, quickly the sling stones, the keulé, the pikininé were returned on the back of the nemo, and the tayo pretended to consolidate the load.
lli chere! If we had seen it? Par lélé, not a warrior who counts his nemo for something? They don’t want to be nothing anymore!
Isn’t it the same everywhere? Doesn’t the stupid vanity of power pose one of the arguments in favour of the inferiority of women, being that motherhood or other circumstances would make it difficult for them to fight? Does that mean that we’re always going to be stupid enough to cut each other’s throats?
And besides, when it is worth fighting for, women are not the last to participate. The old yeast of revolt which is at the bottom of everyone’s heart ferments quickly when the fight opens wider roads, where it smells less of mass graves and the filth of human stupidities. They are disgusted, women! These villainies make their hearts rise in challenge.
A little mocking too, women jeer at the incredible sight of these swaggering boys and old men, small-minded, strange, made cretins by a lot of stupid things, and whose race is finished, weighing the brains of women in their dirty paws, as if they felt the rising tide of those hungry for knowledge, who only ask of this old world that they share what little they know. They are jealous, because they do not want to share the sweetest thing of this old world: knowledge and learning.
It’s been a long time since American and Russian women shook off all those stupid questions about sex, and began to take the same courses as men. Their men are not jealous of it, knowing them to be capable of the same zeal, and not failing to understand that we are more concerned with the condition between the sexes than with the colour of our skin.
But among the developed nations of the world, hichére! Would it not be more lélé than the Caledonian tribes for women to have the same education as men? That is, if they would even want to rule. Rest assured: we are not foolish enough for that! That would be to make authority last! Keep it like this, so that it finishes all the faster!
Alas! this will take a long time to come. Doesn’t human stupidity cover us all with the shrouds of old prejudices?
Don’t worry, there is still a long time to come. But you will not stop the tidal wave or prevent ideas from fluttering like banners in front of the crowds. I never understood why there was a sex which sought to stifle the intelligence of the other, as if there were too already too much intelligence in the human race.
Girls are purposefully brought up in stupidity, so that they are unarmed against those who would harm them, and therefore are better deceived. That’s what they want. It is like throwing you into the water after forbidding you to learn to swim, or even binding your limbs beforehand.
Under the pretext of preserving the innocence of a young girl, she is allowed to dream, in profound ignorance, of things which would make no impression on her if she understood them through a simple knowledge of botany or natural history.
She would be a thousand times more innocent then, for she could pass calmly through a thousand things which would otherwise disturb her. Anything which is a question of science or of nature does not disturb the senses. Does a corpse move those who are used to the amphitheater? Whether nature appears alive or dead, it does not make you blush. The mystery is destroyed, the corpse is offered with a scalpel. Nature and science are clean, the veils that are thrown over them are not. The fig leaves fallen from the figs of old Silenus only underline anything that would go unnoticed.
The English make breeds of animals for slaughter; civilised people prepare young girls to be deceived, then make it her crime, and almost an honour to the seducer. What a scandal when there are bad heads in the flock! Where would we be, if the lambs did not want to be slaughtered?
It is probable that we would all be slaughtered anyway, whether or not we crane our necks. Whatever it is, it is better not to crane it in the first place. Sometimes the lambs change into lionesses, tigresses, octopuses.
It was not necessary to separate the caste of women from humanity. Are there not markets where the beautiful daughters of the people are sold in the streets, on the sidewalk stalls, while the daughters of the rich are likewise sold for their dowry? One, we take when we want; the other, we give to whoever we want. It’s all prostitution, and among us, Caledonian morality is widely practiced.
Hi chère! Not lélé the tayos who count the nemos for something!
To be a proletarian is to be a slave; to be a slave among all is to be the wife of a proletarian.
What about the wages of women? Let’s talk about that. It’s quite simply an illusion, since they are so small as to be illusory. Why are so many women out of work? There are two reasons. One: they cannot find a job. The other: they prefer to starve, in a hole if they can, at the corner of a terminal or a road if they have no more shelter, than to do that job that pays them less than enough to live on, but which brings a lot to the entrepreneur.
Then there are are those women who hold on to life. Driven by hunger, cold and misery, they are lured by the pimps and whores who make a living from prostitution. There are maggots in everything that rots, and these unfortunate women allow themselves to be regimented into the dismal army which drags from Saint-Lazare to the Morgue.
Look, when one of these poor wretches steals from the pocket of a man who dabbles in the mire more than he would have given her, so much the better! Why was he going there? If there weren’t so many buyers, we wouldn’t be trafficking in this commodity. And when an honest woman, slandered or persecuted, kills the scoundrel who is chasing her, bravo! She rids others of a danger; she avenges them. There aren’t enough people on her side.
If women, those accursed women, who, even following the socialist Proudhon, can only ever be housewives or courtesans, and will be nothing else in the old world, which is often fatal to them, whose fault is it? And for men who, for their pleasure, have encouraged the coquetry of women, and all other such vices, to be agreeable to men? They have selected and encouraged these vices over time. There’s no way for it to be otherwise, in the old world.
We women have weapons now; they are the weapons of slaves, mute and terrible; it was not necessary to put them in our two hands: it is already done.
Everywhere, men suffers in this accursed society, but their pain is not comparable to that of women. In the street, she is a commodity. In the convents where she hides as in a tomb, ignorance embraces her, and the regulations take her in their gear, crushing her heart and her brain.
In society, she bends beneath her household burdens in disgust as they crush her; man wants her to stay that way, to be sure that she will not encroach on his functions or titles. Rest assured, gentlemen, we do not need the title to take up your functions when it pleases us.
Your titles… Bah! We don’t like your rags; do what you want with them. They’re too rubbish and cramped for us.
What we want is science and freedom.
Your titles? The time is not far off when you will come and offer them to us, to try by sharing them to retype them a little.
Keep your garbage, we don’t want it.
Our rights, we already have them. Are we not near you to fight the great struggle, the supreme struggle? Will you dare to do your part for women’s rights, when men and women have conquered the rights of humanity?
This chapter is not a digression. Woman, I have the right to talk about women.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 10
Since we were talking about women, let’s also talk about love; I am always reproached for never talking about it. To talk about love, let us return to the dreaming hours in our childhood villages.
There are many love songs that escape in the morning of life from the leaves of old books. In the pages of books, we can love as much as we want. That is to say, we can look very high for the kind of character we would like, if we met him in life. A brave among the brave is chosen from among the sons of Gaul; among the barbarians too. We can look into the distant past at the sons of the North, the men of the Ghilde who poured three cups on the mounds of earth: one for the dead, the other for the ancestors, the third for the brave who fought for freedom. Or the Bagaudes, who died in flames, and the bards, and the troubadours, and the great chiefs of robber bands who took from the rich bandits in their manors, to give the wretched beggars in their thatched cottages.
We cannot be unfaithful to these loves, there are too many to choose amongst them. From the devil to Mandrin, from Faust to Saint-Just, how many shadowy stories made me dream when I was a child! And the Jacques, and the Communiers of the Middle Ages.
The great figures of rebels haunted my thoughts; with them passed the great revolts. How many things float in the dreams of children! Red as blood, black as the night of mourning, I always saw the banners of the rebels at the bottom of my thoughts, and the weddings of those who loved each other were always the red weddings of martyrs, where the supreme pact is signed with blood.
I was not the only one who liked these stories of rebels; it happened to many of us young girls of the village, and to me, and caused us to talk about the same things that the old songs and legends of the country spoke.
Eut qu’elle aimot
Fier il étot.
Le casque en sé tête
Evot l’alouette
Qui pour lu chantot.
Blanche elle étot
Sé main cueillot
Leu guy deu chûne
Et lei verveine
Teulé dans l’bos.
Celui qu’elle aimait,
Fier il était.
Le casque en sa tête
Avait l’alouette
Qui pour lui chantait.
Blanche elle était.
Sa main cueillait
Le gui du chêne
Et la verveine
Ici dans le bois.
[translation:]
He whom she loved
Proud he was,
Helmet on head.
Hear the lark
That sings for him.
White she was;
Hands gathering
Mistletoe
From the dark oak,
And verbena
Deep in the woods.
How many impressions are found in life!
During the Terrible Year of 1871, seeing all of our own fall when still full of strength and life, I suddenly found, like a return to my former life, the impression of an oak, of having an axe pressed to the wound of the heart; that same image which had gripped me as a child.
I saw the tree marked for death again, having in the trunk that large notch where the blade of the axe was moist with sap. It was indeed a tall, bushy oak, the oak of legends, which formed the base of my thoughts. Under its shade, the tall, bushy grass, scattered with white daisies and buttercups, the wood… everything was there.
Thus, like dead leaves blown by the wind, the impressions of the past return, suddenly revived.
Since my return from New Caledonia, I have thought about the circumstances of the last part of my friend Passedouet’s life, who died there a little before the rest of us returned to France. Passedouet had been ill for a long time, and had lost his memory; he seemed, in spite of all his wife’s care, to have arrived at his last moments and never left his bed.
What then, was my astonishment, when I met him in West Bay one day, when I had seen him in this very state just the day before?
His ideas had cleared up; he came to rest at the women’s barracks under the forest, chatting almost as before, but pale and trembling on his legs. Not daring to ask him by what chance he had undertaken this trip alone, and thinking of the anxiety his wife must have had, I proposed to Passedouet to return with him to Numbo where he lived, which he accepted.
Leaning a little hard on my arm, he was walking well. When we had arrived on the heights which are between Nji Bay and Bay of the West, and from where one sees so well the buildings of the penal colony on the edge of the island Nou, reddish on the horizon , Passedouet straightened his tall figure, and extending his large emaciated arm towards the prison, he said to me, cutting out each syllable
“Proudhon was right. Everything that we have tried so far has the same disastrous causes, the same inequality of destinies, the same antagonism of interests. Proudhon said it: he who produces everything has only misery and death; the best trade treaties of a nation protect only its exploiters. We will put an end to all this, but how it does harm! How it does harm!”
Sometimes reciting Proudhon word for word, sometimes speaking in short sentences that were separated by rather long intervals, he remained – his arm extended towards the Ile Nou.
It was indeed the Passedouet of the old days; but a Phantom Passedouet, who was going to join the slaughter of 71. He repeated several times Proudhon! Proudhon! then suddenly fell silent and has hardly spoken since.
In Numbo, they were looking for him as I had thought. Passedouet only survived a few days more, and we never knew why he had come to West Bay.
So now I see him again, standing on the heights, his arm extended towards Nôu Island, casting the last glimmer of his reason, the last breath of his chest, towards the day of deliverance. Yes, friends alive and dead, we will come! By dint of cut sheaves, the day will arise when all will have bread!
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 11
At the heart of my revolt against the strong, I find, farther back than I can remember, my horror of the tortures inflicted on animals.
I would have liked the animals to avenge themselves; for the dog to bite the one who knocked it down with blows; for the horse bleeding under the whip to overthrow its executioner; but always the mute beast undergoes its fate with the same resignation as tamed workers. What a pity, to be a beast.
From the frog that the peasants cut in half, leaving the upper half to drag itself along in the sun, its eyes horribly popping, its arms trembling, seeking to burrow itself under the earth; to the goose being fattened, whose legs are nailed to the ground; to the horse that is exhausted by being gored by the horns of bulls, lamentably, the beast undergoes tortures inflicted by man.
And the fiercer man is towards the beast, the more he crawls in front of the men who dominate him. From the cruelties that we see in the countryside committed on animals, from the horrible aspect of their condition, I feel such pity for them, and understand the crimes of power.
I could not fail to reflect that this is how those who hold the fates of people act towards them. Forgive me, my dear friends from the provinces, if I dwell on the suffering endured in your country by animals. In the hard work that bends you over the marbled earth, you yourselves suffer so much that disdain arrives for all sufferings. Will it ever end?
The peasants have the sad custom of giving small animals to their children as toys. We see on the thresholds of the doors, in the spring, in the middle of hay or wheat cut in summer, poor little birds opening their beaks to youngsters of two or three years old who innocently stuff the earth into them; they hang the birdie by a leg to make it fly, and watch its little featherless wings flutter.
Other times they give them young dogs or cats that the child drags like wagons, on stones or in streams. When the poor beast finally bites the child, the father crushes the animal under his hoof.
All this is done without thinking about it. Labour crushes the parents; fate holds them as the child in turn holds the beast. Beings, from one end of the globe to the other (globes perhaps!), groan in gear. Everywhere the strong strangle the weak.
As a child, I did many animal rescues. There were so many at home already, so it did not matter if I added to the menagerie. The lark’s or linnet’s nests first came to me when I would trade things for them, and then the children understood that I was raising these little animals, which amused them. After that, they were given to me willingly. Children are much less cruel than we think; we don’t bother to make them understand, that’s all.
Didn’t I myself used to throw toads (which became what they could) at bad people? This growing awareness of the plight of animals made me change my way of dealing with such people. Instead, I sent them poems recounting everything that I reproached them with, in more or less savage verses. Incidentally, these nasty people were very harmless, compared to those I have seen since.
My role as Don Quixote earned my grandfather many letters in which the authors promised to come and correct me sharply, since he did not correct me himself, but no one ever came.
He reminded me of some of those vengeful poems. The last, La Grugéide, ended with the author’s curse of a country lord (in parody of the curse of Camille). “Poem, unique object of my resentment.” It was accompanied by a drawing in which the squire was represented ripping through the pages, and another in which the ghosts of twelve tadpoles appeared to Abbé Croque-Arête.
It started like the Aeneid. Grugeïdos – liber primus – argumentum. It was about a key to a park, taken from an old man who died of grief because a young friend (Father Croque-Arête) had stupidly amused himself with tadpoles.
Like the hatred of power, my observation that merit is seldom recognised dates from my younger years. (I have seen a thousand examples of this in the course of my life, so it was only the first time that it caused me astonishment.) I have always seen it depicted to the contrary in books written for young people, and even for others.
My first observation of this was sparked when I saw my old schoolmaster, a simple man, of whom perhaps my parents and I were the only ones to notice his astonishing talent for mathematics. It was my teacher from Vroncourt. Very young then, I had only noticed that whenever he explained a calculation, one understood immediately.
As I had for a long time written words that were made of my own alphabet, imitated from those in books, it was recognised that it was time to teach me to write like everyone else. It was that year that the big M. Laumont, Bourmont’s doctor, asked me gravely (as he always spoke) why I did not write prose works. I undertook a story called The Naughtiness of Hélène. It started like this:
“Helen was very naughty and very opinionated.”
It was the collection of my own mischievous escapades, which, to each, I had added an exemplary punishment for morality.
Hélène, who had stolen from an old doctor a small encyclopedia (a volume bound in leather, in which there were the names of all that one can learn), was condemned to spend a month without any other book than a large grammar that “she wouldn’t have stolen, of course, to get it.”
“Ah, little monster,” said M. Laumont. “I thought that it was you who had taken my book. Keep it, bad little student!”
We discovered many other things in Hélène’s story. Isn’t everyone, from childhood, capable of all the good and bad within them?
What touched me the most was that after this, I no longer needed to hide the book if I wanted to dream about the mysterious naming systems that I imagined to contain human knowledge, as if what is always going forward could be contained in what it was written to be. The story of Hélène was my last work in my own alphabet. As no one at home wrote well, and as I was also now given less time to occupy as I liked, I went to the village school every day.
The teacher was called Michel, although he was no relation. How many Michels I have met! Although I tried hard at school, I soon found a way to also do naughty things.
When Monsieur le Maitre, as we called him, from the top of his large wooden pulpit, recommended that we take down his dictations exactly, I was careful to add all that was not meant to be, to what I wrote. The result was something like this:
“The Romans were the masters of the world (Louise, do not hold your pen like a stick semicolon), but Gaul resisted for a long time (Virginia, stand up straight) their domination. (Children from the top of Queurot, you came in very late one point. Ferdinand, blow your nose. Children of the mill, warm your feet). Caesar wrote the story…” etc.
I even added things that the master did not say, wasting not a minute, zealously scribbling.
I would have been as insensitive to the master’s anger as I was for any ordinary reproaches, if he had not told me coldly,
“If the inspector saw that, he would sack me!”
A great sadness fell on me; I felt cold. I found nothing to say, even when he forbade me to bring him rose leaves for his tobacco afterwards. Dry in winter, cool in summer, it was I who always brought them to him; he liked to put some in the cherrywood snuffbox, closed with a little cover, which was pulled by a leather strap.
The next day, my dictation was flawless; but for more than eight days, under the severe eye of the master, without hope, I turned the white paper full of dry roses that I had prepared for him, inside my apron pocket. Finally, seeing that my heart was heavy, he asked me for them, and once I had returned to favour.
If I did other mischief, it was no longer those kinds that the inspector could reproach my teacher for. Earning so little that he did all kinds of odd jobs during the long summers when the children did not go to class in our villages, the old teacher was always cheerful; I never heard him say a bitter word.
The Vroncourt school is a dark house, having only two rooms. The largest, overlooking the street, is the classroom. The other, where it is never clear, overlooks a hill covered with grass; the window is like a cellar window at ground level: it is the teacher’s accommodation. In this window, as in the classroom window, there were tiny panes of glass and red cotton curtains.
In front of the classroom window, the schoolmaster’s wife (who was also the teacher) worked all winter long. Her profile, a little severe under her large white cap, seemed very beautiful to me. On catechism days, my aunt Victoire came to sit beside her, to see if I had learned well.
The tables were arranged on three sides. The one by the front door was the only one that was empty. There were two or three benches for the little ones who didn’t write (and a few big ones, with what we called very beautiful hands, who wrote on their knees). They were mistresses of their craft, and they were very proud of it.
As for me, in spite of the five kinds of writing which I was taught at the school of Vroncourt, and the beautiful English I learned in the regular courses of Chaumont, I became myself again when I was at home, rolling and disheveling my written words, changing the pace of my pen according to thought; it’s what makes my handwriting quite difficult to imitate. Yet people have tried. My poor mother received, two years ago, a letter that was quite counterfeit (the signature was a masterpiece), to make her believe that I was very ill in the prison Saint-Lazare, and asking for her. That was a crime.
They further went to the trouble of sending a second letter (very well imitated, it seems) asking for a legal pardon so that I could go to my mother. The forger was unaware that, at that exact moment, I had already been there for a few days.
Let us return to the past.
I had noticed that my teacher’s way of teaching, by the way that he posed a problem, elicited the response. He put it under your nose.
His mathematical operations were performed on a blackboard, where, with the end of his long stick, he indicated the place of the numbers. The way he drew on the blackboard allowed you to see the whole operation, and I felt that the questions he asked had a rhythm to them.
I had told this to my grandfather, so much so that one evening I heard him talking with this teacher about so many interesting things, so far removed from my poor little problems that I would have listened to them like that the whole day, or an eternity. That same day I discovered that my teacher had quite simply a genius for numbers and that he was, moreover, a great astronomer and a bard. I also recognized that algebra is easier than arithmetic.
“Why,” said my grandfather, “didn’t you write about mathematics?”
The old schoolmaster laughed sadly. They added some appreciations that I did not understand until much later, but his laughter struck me, and I laughed in the same way when I later saw in books the idea that merit is always recognised and virtue rewarded.
Many times I have rediscovered the simplicity of the old schoolmaster in people of merit. I thought of him one day as the Commander of the Virginie was recounting his trip to the North Pole. The old wolf, electrified by the storm of the day, the high seas of the Cape, and the scents which run around the ships, relived this voyage and made it alive once more.
“Why didn’t you write this down?” I asked.
“I am not a literary man, and scientists take care of all these things.”
How many are there like the captain of the Virginie?
While studies are forced on people using an encyclopaedic method, and presented in a way so as to restrict the horizon instead of widening it, people will often add to it all the obstacles of poverty which hampered the old schoolmaster, as well as the obstacles of prejudice, which generate fear of those parts of knowledge we have not yet explored. This happened to the commander of the Virginie.
Doesn’t everything depend on everything? Isn’t it hindering human development and the development of new understandings when we proceed with general views?
It is only when the vast ensemble is erected that each one searches his little corner of harmony in the landscape, but that will only happen when the rest also happens.
One impression that I yet rediscovered is the sadness that takes hold of you when you have to destroy an animal that cannot be forgiven without some accident happening to others. We hold in our hands the being who wants to live.
Have you seen a viper cut off at the neck? The pieces twist, trying to come together. One suffers anguish seeing this, but it is sometimes necessary. The viper would have bitten someone. Once, above the vineyard hill, we surrounded a poor she-wolf who was howling, her cubs in her paws. I confess to having asked for her pardon, which of course was not granted. But whatever the pity that twists the heart, the harmful being must disappear. The grace that I asked as a child for the she-wolf, I would not ask for some men who act worse than wolves against the human race.
As for those who, like the Czars, singularly represent the slavery and death of a nation, I would have neither more hesitation nor more emotion than I would in removing a dangerous trap from the path.
You can strike this man with tranquility.
This will always be my feeling should the opportunity arise. My feeling will always be the same, like today, like yesterday, or like tomorrow.
I have often been accused of caring more for beasts than for people. Why be moved by beasts, when reasonable beings are also so unhappy?
It’s because everything goes together, from the bird whose brood is crushed, to the human nests decimated by war. The beast starves in its hole, while the man dies far from his home. And the heart of the beast is like the human heart; its brain is like a human brain, capable of feeling and understanding. We can walk all over it, but the heat and the spark will always be there.
Even in laboratories, beasts are sensitive to caresses or brutality. It is often brutalised in experiments: a professor will explore one side of it, and then turn it over to explore the other. Sometimes, in spite of the ties which immobilise it, the professor will disturb the animal’s delicate tissue of flesh, which makes it move, and then a threat or a blow teaches the poor animal that the man is the king of the animals. Sometimes also during an eloquent demonstration, the professor embeds the scalpel in the beast to hold it while he gesticulates. If he’s holding it, he cannot gesticulate, can he? And because the animal is to be sacrificed, he acts as though it no longer matters.
Have not all these demonstrations been known for a long time, as well as the sixty-something operations that are carried out at Alfort on the same horse? Operations which are never useful, but which make the beast, trembling on its feet, suffer bleeding with torn hooves? Wouldn’t it be better to do away with all that is unnecessary in the staging of science?
All this will be as fruitless as the blood of little children slaughtered by Gille de Rez and other madmen in the childhood of chemistry. A science, instead of gold, has emerged from the crucibles of the great work, but it has emerged from it by the process of the nature of the elements, which chemistry decomposes and will one day recompose.
Perhaps man in the future, instead of the rotten flesh to which we are accustomed, will have chemical mixtures containing more iron and nutrients than in the blood and meat we eat today. Well, yes, I am dreaming, for after the time when everyone will have bread, at a time when science will be the cordon bleu of humanity, its cooking will perhaps not at first touch the palate of the human beast so much, but it will not be infected nor rotten, and it will give again to these new generations, exhausted from long famines or the long excesses of their ancestors, a stronger and purer blood. Everything will be for everyone then, even diamonds, because chemistry will know how to crystallise coal, as it knows that diamonds are remade from the ashes of coal.
It is probable that at that time many other riches and more beautiful triumphs than the popularised diamond will belong to science, which will make use of all the forces of nature.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 12
I have said only one word about my teacher training. A few more lines on this subject.
The dead first of all: in the rue Hautefeuille course that we liked so much, a tall old man with his hair all white explained something very useful and little-known to us: how to write in shorthand. Thanks to this instruction, so many things were shortened. We have so little time for studies and we waste so much of it. Never have I seen the goodness painted on a face better than on that of the venerable Grosselin.
Who else died, during my ten years of deportation and two years in prison? Since then I haven’t read the papers, so I don’t know about those who left after I was gone.
Those who, under the Empire, were young teachers or preparing to become one, were eager for knowledge which was scarce to us. We came to the rue Hautefeuille still thirsty for science and freedom. What good friendships were forged there! A few were broken by death, and others were lost in this turmoil of events, which threw us sideways like grain shaken by a winnower!
I could only write initials for those who are still living. Who knows what would happen to them if it became public knowledge that we often elbowed each other in the little room in rue Hautefeuille?
“Do you know Louise Michel? Go join her in prison; there are only anarchists who know her.”
Hasn’t this wretch Louise Michel said a hundred times that everyone should have a part in the banquet of life? Where would the pleasure of wealth be, if it were not to compare its gorged position with that of the starving? Where would be the pleasant feeling of security if one did not compare his good and solid position to the situation of those who languish in misery?
And Louise Michel is a woman! That is the height of outrage. If only we could fool her with the idea that women will obtain their rights simply by asking men for them. But she has the infamy to say that the stronger sex is just as much a slave as the weaker sex, as it cannot give what it does not have itself, and all inequalities will collapse at the same time, when men and women join together for the decisive struggle.
This monster Louise Michel claims that men and women hold no responsibility, and that it is human stupidity which causes all evil; that politics is a form of stupidity which does not know how to enlarge its small vanities and make them the immense pride of the human race. If that woman Louise Michel was the only one, she would look like a pathological case. But there are thousands, millions like her, who do not give a damn about authority, and who go away uttering the cry of the Russians: Land and Freedom!
Yep, gentlemen, there are millions of them who don’t give a damn about any authority, because they’ve seen the little jobs done by the old multi-edged tool called power. Haven’t we seen, for too long a time, the throat-cutting that has emerged from that little thing called power? It really looks as precious as the jade axe, passed from island to island by the Oceanians of Bourou Island.
This time, though, it will not be a new population which arises from it, but the depopulation of the people, and the weakening of the leaders. Come on, it’s time to empty the rotten water, so that men are aware and free.
I knew the headmasters of teaching classes, who had no idea at the time of the things that authority would make them do. Science and freedom! How good and invigorating these things were, breathed under the Empire, in this little remote corner of Paris! How good we felt there, in the evening, in small groups, and also on the days of large sessions when, being more numerous, we left the whole room to strangers!
We took our places, a little heap of enthusiasts, in the square near the office where we had a box of skeletons, along with a host of other things that we liked the neighbourhood. From there, deep in the shadows, we could hear and see much better.
The little room was overflowing with life, with youth; we lived in the times past, well passed, at the time when everyone had an existence other than that of beasts of burden whose work and blood was exploited.
At this time, around five or six years before the siege, the rue Hautefeuille formed, in the middle of imperial Paris, a clean retreat, free of the odour of mass graves. Sometimes history lessons roared alongside the Marseillaise and it smelled of powder.
How did we find the time to attend these classes several times a week? There were physics, chemistry, even law; we were trying all sorts of methods there. How could we, apart from our classes, teach ourselves? I never understood how time, in this moment of our life, could be so elastic. It is true that we did not waste time, and that the days were prolonged; midnight seemed early.
Several of us had resumed studies for the baccalaureate; my old passion, algebra, gripped me again and I could verify (this time with certainty) that, as long as one is not an idiot, one can do without a teacher for mathematics, and learn it oneself. You must only leave no formula unlearnt, and no problem without an answer.
A rage for knowledge held us and it made us happy us to find ourselves, two or three times a week, sitting on the benches, side by side with the most advanced of the pupils whom we sometimes took; happy and proud, they hardly thought of the time. The more we got excited about all these things, the more we had, at times, the gaiety of a child. We were doing well.
How many caricatures and follies, how much childish fun we exchanged! I think we looked like students more often than teachers.
I remember one evening when we tried the Danel method where, as in England and Germany, the names of the notes are taken from the letters of the alphabet (with the difference that they are written without a staff). Afterwards we went out late. From the rue Hautefeuille there were no more omnibuses, and I was walking back home when a fool began to follow me. High mounted on his long heron legs, I amused myself at first by watching his shadow, like the shadow of a bird, glide under the lampposts.
He was saying the kinds of nonsense that people say when they do not know if they will be answered. This made me impatient; it spoiled for me the impression of this fantastic bird trotting on its long legs. So I looked him squarely in the face and, with a booming voice, I started to go down the Danel D range: B, L, S, F, M, R, D!
The effect was overwhelming. Whether it was the slightly masculine accent, or the strange syllables formed by the last four letters, I never knew: the bird had disappeared.
Another time, having a large coat which enveloped me completely, and wearing a sort of large plush hat which cast a lot of shadow on my face, along with new boots (from the pawn shop) whose heels, I don’t know why, happened to ring very loudly, I returned on foot, quite late; there had been a lot of talk about nocturnal attacks in the newspapers, and a good member of the bourgeois who could hear my boots ringing and no doubt could not make out the black form which was coming from his side, began to trot with such fright that I had the idea of following him for a little while to see how frightened my boots would make him.
He kept walking, he kept walking, watching to see if no one would come to his aid. The night was dark, the streets deserted, the bourgeois was scared to death and I was having a lot of fun.
He lengthened his stride as much as he could, and I passed in the shadows, ringing my heels; that was what kept his fear alive. I no longer knew in what district it was when I let the bourgeois go, shouting at him Must we be stupid!
I had to come back and that night I returned very late, or rather early in the morning, no longer laughing; because I had seen, at night, people who live on prey or who themselves fall prey to a night of what is called civilized society.
On the way home from this episode, I wrote some sad-sounding stanzas. They were written while Madame Voilier (despite my daily precaution of putting the clock backwards) scolded and worried, the poor woman, as my mother would have done, thinking I would be tired the next day.
Here are the stanzas:
All the shadows have poured out their dark urns,
All the dark night, its silent ghosts.
The water sleeps sinister and murky and, in its deep bed,
The abyss still opens in the gloomy silence.
Suddenly we hear, towards the immense mystery,
Something fall from a bridge,
While, beneath the light of the pale lampposts,
Wandering in the night, in its the sublime miseries,
Were phantoms more dreadful than the dead cold;
Ghosts lurking under the doors, in the shadows;
Ghosts slipping nameless and without the shadow
Of other erased ghosts.
Well, yeah, I saw the girls and robbers,
And I spoke to them.
Do you believe they were born
To be what they are, and drag their rags
In blood or muck, predestined evil?
No, you made them, you for whom everything is prey,
What they are today.
Yes I had seen robbers and girls and I had spoken to them. How many have lived since, and how many things they told me.
Do you believe that anyone comes into the world with an open knife to stab someone, or a card in hand to sell themselves? We are not born, either, with a club to be a cop, or a minister’s portfolio to be seized with vertigo of power, and drag nations in its fall.
No robber who could not have been an honest man! No honest man who is not capable of committing crimes in the madness into which the prejudices of the accursed old world throw them.
Jules Favre, who was soaked in the blood drained from the throat of Paris because power had poisoned him (as it poisons with blood in the brain all those who are dressed in this tunic of Nessus), this same Jules Favre, we once loved as a father, and he was fatherly to us; he was kind. How many times, on the pretext that he was our president, did I lead people to him who needed to consult a lawyer and could not pay for it?
I remember that one day when I told him when there was an old woman who had suffered a little from a persecution mania and who had to be reassured, perhaps even to be cured! He had wasted a good deal of time reasoning with her, and then he came to me quite angry.
The obtuse angle formed by his forehead and his chin closing in at a right angle was a bad sign.
“It’s too much!” he said to me in a low voice, while the old woman made a bunch of curtsies while muttering I’ve been persecuted twenty years ago, etc., etc.
I can still see the place where it happened, near a large ballot box donated by his constituents. I do not know why the immense desire to laugh seized me, and at that time he had such a good heart that when I burst out laughing, the right angle of his profile reformed into an obtuse angle where, as usual, the eye shone at the top, forming the chin on one of the lines, and the forehead on the other; he himself could not help laughing himself then, and the old woman, still curtsying, said Thank you very much! Til next time! See you soon!
I thought about that in Satory, looking at the little pond where the prisoners drank from the palms of their hands when they were too thirsty, and when the heavy rain which fell on them had swept away the pink foam of the pond (the water was red because the victors had washed their hands there, which were often redder than those of butchers.)
I seemed to see this bloody pool coming out of the urn of old, as one represents the source of rivers.
Who will write down the crimes of power and the monstrous way in which it transforms men, so that its crimes can be forever destroyed, by extending true power to the whole human race?
If you make power bigger, you can save people instead of defeating them. To extend the feeling of patriotism to the whole world: welfare and science, for all mankind.
Have we not had enough of all this death that takes away the people we love?
I come back to rue Hautefeuille.
Another president with whom we were bold, it was Eugène Pelletan. His face, with the smouldering eyes, sunk under thick grey eyebrows, had something strange in them which reminded us of Nicolas Flamel, Cagliostro, and those scientists whose seize the legend; it was especially when he was at the office that we liked to curl up in the skeleton cabinet, looking away, listening, caught up in the poetry of science, by the words of freedom, by the love of the Republic and the hatred of the Caesars. How many books you can read today were started under these impressions!
I remember an enormous manuscript, La Sagesse d’un Fou (Wisdom of a Madman), which I took to Eugène Pelletan when he was our president, so that he could read it and tell me his opinion. I understood how long it took him to read this enormous grimoire and write down a few passages. No, he wrote, it is not the wisdom of a fool, it will one day be the wisdom of the people. When I collected my manuscript back, I felt like I was walking on air! I reread a good part of it carefully, then time ran out. It was necessary then to give more and more lessons after class, and the La Sagesse d’un Fou went along with the other books. Maybe I would have looked for an editor for this one if I had the time. Maria L. too, had read and written many things. Jeanne B. and perhaps her sister must have had manuscripts in the works. Julie L. and Mlle Poulin (whom I can name since she is dead) have thrown many words into the wind. There was a veritable nursery for blue stockings in the rue Hautefeuille, the last two years before 71.
But prose, verse and motifs were blowing in the wind; we felt the breath of the drama very close in the streets: the real drama, that of humanity; the bards sang the new epic, and there was no more room for anything else.
The vocational schools that made us love Mr. Jules Simon had all our enthusiasm at the time. A few handfuls of young girls were just saved from apprenticeship by studying there, and they were provided with certificates or diplomas, according to their aptitudes; artists emerged and we said Here comes the Republic; this handshake will be all!
Alas! At Madame Paulin’s vocational school, during the siege, women of all social positions gathered, and all of them would have preferred to die rather than surrender. We threw together all the help we could get, as best we could, supporting those who could be ransomed by saying Paris must resist, always resist. We created the Society for War Victims.
I see them all as they used to be. I do not know which ones are still alive, but not one of them has failed – these were not those freakish women who, on our final day of defeat (after the Commune), gouged the eyes of the dead federates (those fighting for the Commune) with the end of their parasol.
The first visitor that I could have after I was made a prisoner in Chantiers was one of these brave women, Mme Meurice. At my last court appearance, when my judgment was read, I saw behind the spectators, selected from among those who had entered less easily, the black eyes of another, or rather of two others: the large Jeanne B. and the small Mme F.
Later (when I have obtained permission from them), I will talk about the women and women’s societies, from the Vigilance Committee to our latest evolution into the Women’s League. I greet them in passing, all these brave women of the avant-garde, spread out from group to group, as from summit to summit.
Beware of the old world, on the day when women say: That’s enough! They are not joking; strength takes refuge in them; they are not worn out. Beware of these women!
From those who, like Paule Minck, roam Europe waving the flag of liberty, to the most peaceful of Gaul’s daughters, asleep in the great resignation of the fields, yes, beware of women, when they will stand up, disgusted by everything that is happening! That day it will be over, and the new world will begin.
We had, during the last years of the Empire, a free vocational school on rue Thévenot; each of us giving a few hours of our time these, three times a week, and the Society for Elementary Education taking care of the rent. One of our teachers, whom we called Doctor Francolinus, displayed a diabolical activity there. Sometimes the police of the Empire gave us the pleasure of attending our lessons, which made us laugh, so we improved our lesson from time to time by making comments that made a big swipe at the ugly hyena moustache of the man called Napoleon III.
The courses in literature and ancient geography were given two days by me, two days by Charles de S… in absolutely in the same way: we showed the real side that one would believe romantic: childhood, youth, the decrepitude of towns and peoples, similar to the life of every being and to that of all human kind, as well as the ghost towns rising up before us.
My friend Maria A., the director, had been with Julie L. in the faubourg Antoine. How many times we found one another there, at that late hour when there was no longer time to look at the shelves of booksellers or to read, between the pages, the books on display outside. We would come and go from the suburb to the rue du Château-d’Eau. How many jokes we played on one another in the evenings when we were sad! Our bursts of laughter cut the shadows.
She did not want to go with me to a photographer’s one evening when, having found me a horrible portrait of someone or other, and having loaded it with more fanciful details, I said to the photographer with a somewhat exaggerated Bourmont accent, “Sir, I saw on your door Full-length photographs. Could you create a full-length portrait of my husband here?”
You can imagine the man’s expression as I gave him such absurd explanations, and his indignant face as I ran away laughing.
Neither did Maris want to be there on that day during the holidays, when I was to be sent by an employment office to be a cordon bleu chef to some good bourgeois family, who would have kicked me out after the first dinner I had intended to make them.
It was on the Bastille side, on a third floor. I had no papers (having forgotten them I said), but the usher let me in when I dazzled him with the names of all the imperial underworld whom I claimed to have served. In the end I threw the whole story in his face, laughing like crazy.
What a spell the influence of names is! This lesson, given to this poor devil, was well worth the pleasure of putting a little pepper in sweet dishes, to be kicked out by people accustomed to real cordon bleu. The usher, once deceived, began to curse me, and I left laughing as usual, brazenly telling him Next time, don’t let yourself be so easily confused with those names!
I am chasing a sketch of something while it lingers; there are so many things piled up since the year of the Siege that, to say them all, we would never end. Among the teachers we met in rue Hautefeuille, one of the earliest to gather together the ruins of science was Mlle Poulin, a teacher in Montmartre. Long undermined by a breast disease, she acted as though she did not even feel it, piling up as much knowledge as possible before she went to the grave.
At the very end of the Empire we united our two institutions, at 24 rue Houdon, after the death of Mme Voilier and the departure of my cousin Mathilde, who had spent a few months with me. The last time I saw Mlle Poulin’s grave was in May 71. During the night of the 22nd to the 23rd, I believe. We were in the Montmartre cemetery, which they were trying to defend against too few combatants.
We had crenellated the walls as best we could, and if it had not been for the short bursts of machine-gun battery coming from the hill, and the shells coming at regular intervals from the side where we saw the tall houses, the position wouldn’t have been bad.
The sounds of the shell, tearing the air, marked time like a clock. It was magnificent in the clear night, where the tombstones seemed alive. The men I was fighting with belonged to the same company with which I had been from the first day of the struggle.
Several times we had scouted, now one and the other; I liked the walk in this shell-ridden solitude. I had wanted to return there several times, in spite of my comrades’ opposition. But luckily, the fire always came too early or too late for me, and I was not hit.
But we were already wounded, and I had a hard time getting back, that is to say, I went on reconnaissance in spite of my comrades. A sudden shell falling through the trees covered me with flowering branches, which I divided between two graves: that of Mlle Poulin, and that of Henri Murger, whose genius seemed to throw flowers at us when he was alive.
Sacred thousand thunders! one of my comrades told me. You won’t move from there. And they made me sit down on a bench near the tomb of Cavaignac.
But nothing is as stubborn as women. I was not the only one to verify strange calculations of probabilities, and sharing my luck, my comrades could not have had better opportunity. The shell always fell before or after we had passed.
Another memory from the rue Hautefeuille: she was a very small, very thin person, giving music lessons, but she could also have given so many other things. She walked as in a rhythm, everything was harmony in her. And there are others in my memory, and still others more, who fortunately are still alive.
Many things had their home in rue Hautefeuille. Besides free elementary education courses, we had vocational schools, courses teaching mothers to read, and a course for young people, a large number of them, including children – too-young children – who worked all day or who had never been to school.
The first women’s rights groups with Mmes Jules Simon, André Léo and Maria Deraismes often met at the vocational school in rue Thévenot. Everything began, or rather began again, after the Empire’s long lethargy. At the bottom of all this, the idea of Russian revolutionaries also carried me along.
But even where the most advanced among men applaud the ideas of equality of the sexes, I could notice, as I had always seen it before and as I always live it afterwards, that in spite of them, and by the force of custom and old prejudices, men would seem to help us, but would always be content with just the appearance of helping.
So let’s take our place without begging it. Political rights are already dead. Equal education, and adequately paid work for women, so as not to make prostitution the only lucrative state: that is what was real in our program.
Today time has done its part; it is necessary to rectify the great debacle. Yes, the Russians are right, evolution is over, it takes revolution, or the butterfly would die in its nymph’s tunic.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 13
By 1865, my dear mother had sold what was left of her fields, keeping only the vines, in order to buy my Montmartre day school, which she paid by measure, the poor woman! as she received, on her side, the price of the sale.
We lived there, Madame Voilier and I, on the income her sons made, and we arrived just as the number of pupils began to increasing greatly. We would have been almost at ease, for teachers. We did so many projects! My grandmother was still alive and I received good news from her and my mother. I do not know what joy rose to my heart at times.
This is how it ends. One evening Julie L. and Adèle Esquiros came to dine with us. Mme Voilier had received her pension, we were in the money and we had talked about sending a small gift to Haute-Marne.
Julie brought I don’t know what from the country. Adèle Esquiros had loaded herself with sweets. It was a day off, the four of us were very warm in the little room upstairs. We were chatting happily, especially Mme Vollier, whom I had never seen so cheerful.
I had told how I had stuck a Republican poster the day before on the back of a town sergeant. I had one left over; I reasoned that it had to be placed somewhere.
On the open piano, the big black cat walked back and forth, listening to the motif which awakened under his paws, his head a little raised, like a big raccoon, having eaten a whole bowl of coffee cream which I did not mention.
Madame Vollier was relating how, in the interest of the house, she had put our funds in a chest of drawers under lock and key, and held the keys in her pocket; she made them jingle with that smile of her eyes that I had seen my grandmother have, and that I saw so many times from my mother whenever I stole something in my little escapades. We all applauded her, but laughed even more when, out of remorse of conscience, I returned the wallet that I had stolen from the chest of drawers that very morning. Almost nothing was missing.
I don’t know what kind of heartbreak enfolded me; we were happy, and it was as if I knew that it could not last. However, I ended up feeling excited and happy. Quite a bit later, I took our friends back to the omnibus in the rue Marcadet.
The night was dark and sad, and in that shadow a dog was howling; on my return he began to follow me. The coincidence that put this sinister beast in my path was more aligned with the truth. Madame Vollier, to whom I was careful not to let my impression of sadness show, was still cheerful when I got home. But it was not for long. She had her second stroke that night.
I have her portrait near my bed, in front of a bouquet of red carnations. As though I was their sister, her sons left me my share of memories.
After the death of Madame Vollier, a great sadness came over me, but there was no time to suffer. The Empire, as it neared its end, was becoming more threatening, and we were becoming more determined.
The first teacher who had settled in Montmartre, Mlle Caroline L’Homme, and who had, she said, taught the whole neighbourhood to read (she was right), was now crippled and old. She still had a few pupils; one day she gave what was left of them to me. She was broken.
Have you read the legends of the North? She looked like one of the nuns of that fable, she passed so quietly. Pale, with her long white hair tied by a long antique needle, something fateful enveloped her.
It is only at the end of our lives that we have lived a heroic legend.
Nothing could be more charming than this gentle and proud woman. Now dead, too!
My poor mother; she had very few peaceful days with me. When she came to Montmartre, she was shattered by the death of my grandmother. But the Revolution was coming; I left her alone for long evenings. After that, it was days, then months, then years. Poor mother! By a few words that escaped her by the end, I understood how many sacrifices my poor mother had made to pay for the day school in Montmartre. I loved her so much that I will only be happy when I go to find her in the land where everyone sleeps. Can our mothers be happy?
In the fermentation of the end of the Empire, the idea of revolution germinated and grew. Shaken in a shower of sparks, it set fire like a torch. We had had enough of all these dirty things. Our meetings were held more and more in broad daylight. It was as though the revolt rose from below ground, to arrive in the bright sun. We hadn’t seen the war coming yet. The war raised herself to prop up Bonaparte’s reign with piles of corpses.
The war could not succeed, despite the training of this group of imperial bandits; it was necessary to let free of the wings of the Marseillaise to intoxicate the people. The army itself, always too docile, could not march and sing the Beau Dunois.
Some verses I wrote at the time sketch out this situation: I will include some here.
RED CARNATIONS
In those days, those nights, we assembled in the shadow,
Indignant, shaking the sinister and black yoke
Of the December-man, and we shuddered, dark,
Like the beast at the slaughterhouse.
The Empire was ending. He killed at ease,
In his cave where the threshold had the smell of blood.
He reigned, but in the air was blowing the Marseillaise.
Red was the rising sun.
It often happened that a bardic scent,
Enveloping us all, made our hearts vibrate.
To the one who sang the heroic collection,
Sometimes we threw flowers.
Of these red carnations that, to recognize us,
Had each of us reborn as red flowers.
Others will be taken during the times to come,
And those will be the victors.
The second part of Red Carnations was written in Versailles, through the great public sacrifice of 1871, and sent to Ferré, condemned to death, Here it is:
Maison Arrest de Versailles, September 4, 1871.
A TH. FERRÉ.
If one day to the cold cemetery I were to go,
brothers, cast on your sister,
like a final hope,
some red carnations in bloom.
In the final days of the empire,
as the people awoke,
red carnation, it was your smile
that told us all was reborn.
And now, go blossom in the shade
of dark and drear prisons,
go blossom near the somber captive,
and tell him we love him.
Tell him that in these changing times
everything belongs to the future;
that the victor with his pallid brow
can die as easily as the vanquished.
There are only flowers in my life: the red roses in the bottom of the enclosure loaded with bees; the white lilac that Marie wanted on her coffin; and the flesh-colured roses stained with drops of blood that I sent from Clermont to my mother!
Let us return to the past through more verses.
THE MANIFESTATION OF PEACE
In the night we go away, walking in long lines
Along the boulevards, saying Peace, Peace
And we feel ourselves followed by the servile pack.
Your day, O Liberty, will it never come?
And the pavement struck by the heavy throws of the lance
Resounds heavily; the robber wants to stay.
To delay a little his fall, which is advancing,
He fights it, even as France darkens.
Do you feel these cursed men pass from your palace?
It’s your end.
Do you see them in a scary dream?
They go to Paris, like ghosts.
Do you hear? in Paris, whose blood he will drink,
His walk is punctuated with this strange rhythm.
The stunned crowd, like a great flock, passes,
And there is that robber Caesar, surrounded by a hundred henchmen,
And to strike France he sharpens his knife.
Since we want combat, since we want war,
People bow their foreheads, sadder than death.
We must fight against the tyrants together.
Bonaparte and Guillaume will have the same fate.
One evening, as I pretended that I was not involved in any political activity (so that my mother would not be worried), two of our friends came to pick me up for a meeting. They had stayed outside so that she did not suspect what was happening.
“It’s impossible,” said the poor woman, “For you to go and give lessons at this hour!”
“It’s Julie who sends for me,” I said.
But she went to the window and saw my friends there.
“I just knew it,” she said, “That it was for your meetings.” She was laughing, despite herself. We also left laughing.
Those. meetings most often took place outside Paris. How many things we spoke about, on our way back along the paths in the fields! Other times we were silent, awed by the dazzle of the ideas that arose within us, sweeping away the shame of twenty years.
Oh my friends, I think we were all poets, a little! We have suffered a lot, but we have seen beautiful things!
How better to relive those days, than by the pages that remain from that time:
NIGHT WATCHERS
I
The charge resounds under the earth.
Forward! Forward! Let’s walk!
Ninety-three has the banner.
Oh my friends, let’s go! Let’s go!
What! as long as the rotting eagle
Would have enough to feed a worm,
We would dare to bow down
In front of this impure carrion?
To arms, citizens! Train your battalions.
Let’s walk; let unclean blood water our furrows.
II
Before the empire crumbles,
Before the worm-eaten skeleton
Crumbles under the great swell,
We know what the people wanted.
Let’s break this iniquitous slavery,
In front of Tiberius, would we all have
Crawled on our knees for twenty years?
Friends, long live the Republic
To arms, citizens! etc.
August 15, 1870.
We said And so! Long live the Republic!
All Paris will respond, all Paris raises itself,
Remembering at last, proud, heroic Paris,
In its generous blood that the Empire washed away.
So this is what we believe! The city is silent.
I still see this day in the distant haze.
Each shutter closes and the street is deserted.
To our brave friends, we shouted: To Prussia!
Yes, in Paris, we shuddered at the crimes of the Empire. It was in Paris that we had the answer: Vive la République! And there was a great silence.
All the shutters were closed, leaving the Boulevard de la Villette deserted, and around the wagon where Eudes and Brideau were prisoners, they shouted To Prussias!
It is because Paris has always been deceived by this strange precept of waiting, that we knew that we had to now achieve all, because the shame and crimes were piled up to heaven.
When our friends were condemned to death for having wanted to proclaim the Republic and bring down Bonaparte, we were given responsibility – André Léo, Adèle Esquiros and I – for carrying a protest covered with thousands of signatures to General Trochu. The greater number of these signatures were given in indignation; some people changed their minds afterwards, when they later became timid. But weren’t our signatures going to save the lives of our friends? I admit that I did not want to erase the signatures of these two or three shy people.
Well, so much the better, I said to them, we will go down together.
It was not easy to reach General Trochu. It took all my female stubbornness to reach him. After almost storming into a sort of anteroom, we said we would not leave without seeing the Governor of Paris. The words: “We come on behalf of the people” did not have a good resonance there. At their invitation that we leave, we went to sit on a bench against the wall, declaring that we would not leave without an answer.
Tired of seeing us waiting, a secretary went to look for a character who said he represented Trochu. This person came and, weighing the voluminous notebook we gave him that was covered with signatures (which seemed to worry him), he told us that, given the number of the signatures, they would be taken into consideration. This promise would have had little weight if the Empire had not collapsed, rotten as it was, Sedan’s bludgeon pinning its corpse to the ground.
There was only one red scarf in the Hôtel de Ville at that time: that of (Henri) Rochefort. But we said to ourselves: The people are there.
Unfortunately after September 4, things were still being run as they had been run under the Empire, and the people let it go for a long time.
So many memories. We had no news of each battle: neither true nor false. Only the titles of the people in government changed, but things remained otherwise the same!
We refused to allow the soldiers to attempt desperate sorties; we were still waiting for the liberating army, which we knew very well could not come. People said that a city had never succeeded in unblocking itself on its own. I did not feel that was true. The fact that it has never happened does not mean it is impossible; to the contrary, it has a chance of happening at least once.
On October 31 1870, at the Hôtel de Ville, the Commune was named, but it was stolen away like a goblet tower. You need these things to happen, to know which enemies you are dealing with.
Flourens paid with his life at the outposts of the Commune, where the Versaillais murdered him in a trap. This crazy generosity. If we are relentless in the next fight, whose fault is it?
On January 19 1871, we finally agreed to let the National Guard attempt to retake Montretout and Buzenval. First the places were taken, but the men entering the sodden earth up to their ankles could not mount the armour on the hills, they had to fall back.
There they remained by the hundreds, without regretting their lives. National guards, men of the people, artists, young people; the earth drank the blood of this first Parisian sacrifice, and it was to drink many more.
But Paris did not want to surrender. On January 22, we were in front of the Town Hall, where Chaudey was in command. The protest was to say that the people did not dream of surrendering. Many wanted the demonstration to be peaceful, but it ended with the crushing of those foolish pacifists, while those who were armed moved away. When only the unarmed multitude remained, a little noise of hail fell from the windows. In places where there were gaps, you could see the pale faces of the Bretons.
Yes, it was you, savages of Armor, savages with blond hair, who did this. But at least you are fanatics and not copouts. You killed us! But you thought you had to do it for your honour. One day we will have you bring your passion to freedom’s cause. You will bring the same fierce conviction to it, and with us you will assault the old world.
Razoua commanded the Montmartre battallions. No rifle-shot was fired from our side, the side of the people, in the face of the Bretons’ fire. But then those who had lined up around the Square de la Tour-Saint-Jacques became indignant. The bullets still raining down, they began to build a barricade.
An old man whose hood was riddled with bullets and who hardly thought of it, an old man from June 48, Malézieux, remembered those days and took control of the situation, like a flag: the brave man, in his June flag.
In the middle of the square, lost in my thoughts, I looked at the cursed windows, thinking You will be ours, brave men. The bullets continued making their little sounds of hail, and the place had become deserted. The projectiles coming from the Hôtel de Ville were fired randomly, killed the pedestrians.
Next to me, a woman of my size, also dressed in black and who looked like me, fell, hit by a bullet. A young man was seen naked beside her; he too was killed. We never knew who they were; the young man had the bold profile of the races of the South.
Many did not want us to stop there. But we decided that revolution wouldn’t be this time. On January 22, Sapia was killed, along with others; P. from the Blanqui group had his arm broken. There were passers-by killed like ours had been, and at the graves people swore vengeance and freedom.
I had thrown my red scarf over a pit in challenge, and a comrade tied it to the branches of a willow tree.
Six days after these events of January 22, when the people were machine-gunned and the government gave the assurance that no attempt would be made to surrender, the government surrendered to the Prussians. Paris’ burst of anger did not subside this time.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 14
The Montmartre Vigilance Committee has its own history; we are few survivors of it; it made the reaction tremble under the Siege. Every evening we flew to 41 Chaussée Clignancourt in Paris, sometimes demolishing a club of cowards, sometimes blowing air on the fire of revolution, because the time of deception had passed. We knew what promises and the lives of citizens weighed in the face of a floundering power.
In Montmartre, there were two Vigilance Committees: that of the men, and that of the women. I was always with the men, because they were Russian revolutionaries. I still have an old map of Paris which was on the wall of the second room; I took it and brought it back across the ocean as a souvenir. We had blotted out with ink the Empire’s coat of arms, as it would have soiled our lair.
Never have I seen intelligence so straight, so simple and so elevated as I did in the Men’s Vigilance Committee. Never have I seen more distinguished individuals. I do not know how this group did the things it did; there were no weaknesses. There was something strong and good resting within each member.
Among the citizens, there was the same courage, and there, too, remarkable intelligences; but at 41 Chaussée Clignancourt, I continued to belong to the two committees whose tendencies epitomised them. The Women’s Committee will also have its history to play out; perhaps one day they will be merged with the Men’s, because at that time one will hardly worry about to which sex one belongs in order to do their duty. That stupid question will be over.
In the evenings, I found a way to be at the two clubs, since the women’s club, at rue de la Chapelle at the Justice of the Peace, opened first. I could thus attend just over half the session of the meeting in the Pérot room, or sometimes even the whole session; both bore the name of the Revolutionary Club, distinct from the Grandes Carrières.
I still hear the call and I could say all the names of those there. Today is the call of the ghosts.
The Vigilance Committees of Montmartre left no one without asylum; no one without bread. They sometimes shared only a herring for dinner, split between four or five, but for those in need, they did not spare the resources of the town hall, nor the revolutionary means of requisitions. The XVIIIth arrondissement was the terror of monopolists and others like them. When we said Montmartre was going to descend, the reactionaries stuffed themselves into their holes, unleashing like chased animals the hiding places where food was rotting, while Paris was starving. We laughed heartily when one of us found some snitch who thought he was a good citizen.
We mowed down the Vigilance Committee like all good revolutionary groups do. The few who remain, Hippolyte F…., Bar…., Av….., Viv….., Louis M…., know how proud we were and how we carried the flag of the Revolution. It did not matter to them whether they were turned to dust in the struggle, or else in the bright sun. It doesn’t matter which way the millstone passes, as long as the bread is made
One sometimes wonders how so much could be contained in life during these mere fifteen years. I will write the frame, so that you can close the book wherever you want.
This here is not what one would call a sensational work; it is a quick glance on the life and thoughts of a woman of the Revolution. It hardly causes a sensation within us when we are crushed, that is where all obstacles cease for us. We only seek to be useful projectiles in the revolutionary struggle. There is no-one suffering anymore on account of what happened to us; nothing stops us, my heart is still there! It is better for the cause.
What does it matter, now, in the heart torn bleeding from the chest, if the sharp points of feathers dig in there like the beaks of a crow? No one is here any more to suffer calumnies. My mother is dead.
If she had lived a few years more, a few more months, I would have spent all that time near her. Today, what do prisons and lies and all the rest of it matter? What would death do? It would be a deliverance; am I not already dead? If I leave here it will be to enter the furnace where one feels the breath of the unknown, which whips you in the face.
Why do we speak of courage? Am I not eager to go find my partner Marie and my mother! My poor mother, who lived so alone when I was imprisoned at Saint-Lazare last year. She would have felt me near her; the agony of my return to prison stole a month of her existence.
And after I was in Saint-Lazare? I only asked for these last moments with her, promising the authorities in return that I would go back to New Caledonia and start a school for the Canaques. I didn’t want to be pardoned; it wasn’t my fault, but I did it because my mother was dying. The governors were, as it always happens, less bad than their laws are; they let me stay with her for a few days.
Man is always obliged to break the law with which he wraps himself like a net and which he spreads over others. No man would be a monster or a victim without the power that one gives to another, to the detriment of everyone. If this book is my testament, let it cast every page with curses on the old order of things.
I would have died a long time ago if I did not think that were close to making the final blow; the one where the red and black flags will float together.
One more thing that the authorities have done well is to have ignored those who, following only their kind hearts, have asked that I be released, my mother still warm!
My poor mother, dead because I was not there. Freedom, as if I had been paid for her corpse. We did not do it and we did well. Can anything move me, now that she is no longer in pain? I am not expecting pain or joy, I am good for the fight.
Let us go back quickly, since everything will be taken again… on January 22, March 18, the fight, the defeat, the men and women’s committees, the deportation, the return; prisons before and after the return.
On March 18, on the Butte of Montmartre, bathed in that first light of day which illuminated everything as though through the veil of water, an anthill of men and women rose up; the hill had just been surprised; going up there you thought you were going to die.
Here’s why the Butte was the focus of the reaction. The guns paid for by the National Guards were left in a vacant lot in the middle of the area abandoned to the Prussians. Paris did not want to surrender its cannons that it had paid for itself, so they were taken back to the Wagram park.
It was a general impetus given by a battalion from the 6th arrondissement. The idea was in the air, each battalion went to collect its guns; they passed the boulevards with the arms of men, women and children, the revolutionary flag in mind. Sailors were already proposing to retake the forts from the Prussians as you would boarding ships; this idea breathed in the air intoxicated us.
No accident happened, although the pieces were loaded. Montmartre, like Belleville and Batignolles, had its guns; those which had been placed in the Vosges were transported to the Faubourg Antoine.
The clubs had been closed since January 22, and the newspapers suspended. If the people were not already on alert, it is probable that March 18, instead of being the triumph of the people, would have been that of some king.
The Badingue son was not yet dead; Montmartre disarmed, it was the intervention of the sovereign, Bonaparte or Orleans, who made the army and the Prussians accomplices, and allowed the Prussians to establish themselves in the forts the army should have protected.
This time Montmartre did not want to be an accomplice to the army which, three months later, they used to crush Paris.
The army raised its rifle butts in the air instead of snatching the French cannons from the National Guards, and above all from the women who covered them with their bodies; the soldiers understood, this time, that the people were defending the Republic by defending the arms which the royalists and imperialists, in agreement with the Prussians, would have turned towards Paris.
Yes, if March 18 had to belong to the foreigners, ally to the kings, or to the people, it belonged to the people. When the victory was decided thus for us, I looked around me and I saw my poor mother who had followed me there, thinking that I was going to die.
Clément Thomas and Lecomte, at the moment when Clément Thomas was commanding to shoot the people, were arrested. Both had been, by their very acts, condemned by the people for a long time; it dated all the way back to June 48 for Clément Thomas. He had returned to public life during the Siege, and was known for insulting the National Guard. Like Thomas, Lecomte had a backlog of rent to pay: his soldiers remembered those things he had done.
Revenge emerged from the past, without order, it allows the hour to strike. And yet it will still ring, too, for many others, without a passing Revolution allowing them to do it or prevent it.
We count those who die in popular reprisals, but there is another side who we do not count; who we have no way of counting. It is the people who are only grass under the sickles; grass mown in the summer sun.
Several of our people also perished. Turpin, who fell near me when they attacked No. 6 rue des Rosiers during the night, died a few days later in Lariboisière. He asked me to recommend his wife to Clémenceau; the will of the deceased was faithfully carried out.
I never read the testimony of Clémenceau in the Inquiry of March 18; we didn’t read newspapers in prison. The indecisions for which he is reproached come from his illusion of awaiting some further progress from dead parliamentarism; this illusion is the bacteria he brought back from the Assembly, while fleeing the Assembly in Bordeaux. His place is in the streets, and circumstances will drag him back there one day when his indignation grows; it is what remains of his revolutionary temperament. One day when he perceives a great crime, this cold indignation of revolt will return him from these illusions, in the same way that he left the Assembly of Bordeaux.
Let’s go, last members of Parliament. If you are to remain honest, wouldn’t it be better to follow the great Jacobin who shows you the way, Delescluze? Working through parliaments has lasted long enough, and through the rot, nothing blooms. No matter how much you sow there, no matter how much blood is poured over it, it’s over, well over.
What is the use of changing its name, when at the Elysee and the Hôtel de Ville, we cannot help the wounded without dancing over the corpses, while the people, dying of hunger, watch fireworks rise in the air? It’s just like the old August 15. The power! It’s like like using a glass chisel to sculpt marble. Come on! To dominate is to be a tyrant, while to be dominated is to be cowardly. Let the people stand up! The old lion has been whipped long enough for him to break the muzzle.
And the next day? we say. Well, the next day belongs to the new humanity; it will arrange itself in the new world. Can we comprehend that day? May it pass over us as smoothly as over a bridge. We are only good if this happens. Let us not discuss it, blind as we are to the new dawn which is rising.
In revolution, the epoch which emulates others is lost, we must go forward. The Commune, surrounded on all sides, had only death on the horizon; it could only be brave.
It was. Revolution opened the door wide for the future, and there the future will go.
The ship from Paris is in the harbor, well, in the harbor of the new shore. It dances on its anchors. The best of your crew has been thrown to the sharks; but it will take it on.
And how beautiful this ship is, with its red and black flags floating on our mourning and our hope. Here is the revenge of all humanity on the eternal days of May. On blood blossoms vengeance, as water makes the grass blossom, say the brave.
In this new world, personal revenge will disappear like drops of water in the raging waves. We do not count the vicissitudes of the grains of sand; they ride with the others, they are all there.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 15
During the whole time of the Commune, I spent only one night with my poor mother. Never going to bed – I could really say never – I slept just about anywhere, and only when there was nothing better to do; many others have done the same. Each one of us gave themselves entirely to those who wanted deliverance.
If the reaction had had as many enemies among the women as it had among the men, Versailles would have experienced more pain; it is a justice to our friends, that they are more susceptible to the follow of pity. They suppose a woman to be weak of heart, but a woman knows more than a man how to say It must be done. She can feel torn to her very bowels, but she remains uncowed. Without hatred, without anger, without pity for herself or for others, she knows how to do what is necessary, whether her heart bleeds or not.
So were the women of the Commune…
Alongside my woman’s clothes, I wore a lignard’s costume, and other times a national guard uniform. I had maps in my pockets to prove where I came from; and I left without anything having happened to me other than a bullet wound on my wrist, my hat riddled with bulletholes, and an ankle sprain which, having had it for a long time, finally forced me not to walk for three or four days and to requisition a carriage during that time.
It was a pretty good-looking carriage; we had also harnessed a horse who was fairly nice looking. Unfortunately, though, he was used to following instructions with blows; if you treated him honestly, he didn’t want to walk, the ugly beast.
The thing went perfectly, as long as it was a question of following a funeral in step to the Montmartre cemetery, but afterwards, when it was necessary to go elsewhere, the accursed animal, not satisfied with its little habit of sleeping upright, stopped short to allow a bunch of idiots to come around me and whisper everywhere “Ah, these people have horse-drawn carriages; they are making money dance, and that must cost a lot of money to maintain that car!”
“Wait,” said a friend, “do not come down. I am going to make him trot.”
He gave a piece of bread and encouragement to this monster, who began to chew, raising his lips as if he laughed in our face, and didn’t move more than a foot.
So, no offense to those like me who are slaves to the poor beasts, I applied the law of necessity, in the form of a whip to our horse, which left, shaking its ears, for the Peyronnet barricade in Neuilly. On my way to Montmartre, I had not dared to stay with my poor mother, because she would have seen that I had a sprain.
A few days earlier I had found myself face to face with her, in the trenches near the Clamart station. She came to see what whether the lies I wrote to reassure her were true; luckily she always ended up believing me.
In the next part of this story there will be some accounts of our struggles. In the provinces, the people still believed the official fairytales. State reason demands that we make discord between the various groups of rabble, to whom we leave enough time to work, but too little time and resources to revolt, but which, between each regulated pruning, grows back as numerous and strong as the Gallic oaks.
Some of the most devoted went from Paris to the provinces; women, among others Paule Mink. We multiplied our supporters as much as possible. If the province had understood what was happening, it would have been with us. We tried balloons filled with dispatches to France. A few fell where they were supposed to. And not everyone was deceived by the Versailles blunders. Lyons, Marseilles and Narbonne had their own Communes, drowned like ours in revolutionary blood; it is because this always happens that our banners are red: why, then, do they frighten those who cause them to be so stained? The peasants’ pains is even darker than ours; they constantly bend over the earthly stepmother, drawing only their master’s surplus, and they have less consolation of thought than we do.
To you, peasant, this is my song of anger; may it germinate in your furrows; it is a memory of our time of struggle.
SONG OF HEMP
Spring laughs in the green branches,
In the depths of the woods the nests chirp;
Everything lives, singing with open wings,
All birds hatch their young.
The people have no money or stitches,
Not a shelter, not a valiant penny;
Hunger and cold eat away at their entrails.
Sow your hemp, peasant!
Sow your hemp, peasant!
It would be good if Jacques Misère
Could love, to bring both love and misery!
But love and light is far from us.
They don’t exist for the unfortunate!
Let us not leave a widow to torment,
Let us not leave sons to tyrants,
We don’t want to be accomplices.
Sow hemp, peasants!
Sow hemp, peasants!
Forge, castles, fortresses.
Give your all to everything, like the flocks;
Sweat and blood, work and distress.
The factory rises to the rank of castles.
Jacques, do you see, at night under the porches,
As in a dream of flaming flight,
Reds, wander, torchlight.
Sow your hemp, farmer!
Sow your hemp, farmer!
You can see it clearly, friends, that I’m capable of anything, love or hate. Don’t make me better than I am, and you are.
Human insects that we are, we gnaw the same debris, we roll in the same dust, but it is in the Revolution that our wings will beat. Then the chrysalis will be transformed, everything will be over for us and the better times ahead will have joys that we cannot understand today.
The sense of the arts, and of freedom, are only rudimentary in our race; they have t develop and produce fruit. It is that harvest that will grow in wonderful sheaves. Over there in the warm shade of a spring night, it’s the red reflection of the flames; it’s Paris lighting up during those days of May.
This fire is a dawn; I can still see that fire, writing this.
Beyond our accursed time will come the day when man, conscious and free, will no longer torture neither man nor beast. This hope is well worth going through the horror of life.
I always forget that I write my Memoirs. If only we could forget existence until the end, too!
Before talking about my third arrest (in the days of May), I must tell you about the first ones. It was at the time of the Siege, with Mrs. André L. We had called for volunteers to charge through everything, to go to the assistance of dying Strasbourg, and to make a last effort to save her from the Prussians, or to die with her.
Large numbers of volunteers had come. We crossed Paris in a long line, shouting To Strasbourg! To Strasbourg! We added our signatures to the open book at the knees of the statue of Strasbourg, and from there we went to the Town Hall, where we were stopped.
Mrs. A. L., me and a poor little old woman who, crossing the square to fetch oil, had found herself in the middle of the demonstration. She did not leave her little petrol can; and when she was taken in on our account, especially at the sight of her pitcher, which was an eloquent witness, her hands were trembling so much that the oil fell on her dress. A big guy came in. I tried to explain to him what we were doing.
“What does it matter to you if Strasbourg perishes? You aren’t there…” said this colourful sleepwalker, who had come to see us out of curiosity.
A member of the provisional government set us free. It was at this very hour that Strasbourg succumbed.
My second arrest was still during the time that we were under Siege. Women, more courageous than far-sighted, had wanted to offer the government some sort of defence to which they asked to be employed. Their eagerness was so great that they came to the Montmartre Women’s Club, on behalf of a citizen and a group they forgot to tell.
Had they presented themselves without the name of any group, we would not have hesitated to accept their meeting the next day. But as they presented themselves as this group, we told them that we would accompany them as women, on the reservation that we shared their dangers, but not as citizens. We no longer recognized the government, which was unable to let Paris even defend itself.
We went to the meeting at the Town Hall, waiting to see what would happen. It was there that I was arrested for allegedly having organised a demonstration. I replied that I could not organize a demonstration to speak to a government that I no longer recognized, and that when I came to the Town Hall on my own account, it would be with the people in arms. My explanations did not seem satisfactory; I was imprisoned.
But the next day the four citizens, Theophile Ferré, Avronsart, Burlot and Christ, came to claim me on behalf of the 18th arrondissement. Believing that the scarecrow of the Montmartre reaction was going to descend upon them, I was released.
Mme Meurice also came to claim me on behalf of the Society of Women for the Victims of War; she arrived after our departure from the prefecture; women, I repeat, did not commit cowardice. That is because we do not like to get our paws dirty. Maybe we have a bit of the feline race in us.
Three hundred thousand votes elected the Commune. About fifteen thousand people during Bloody Week were said to have fallen before the army. About thirty-five thousand were counted; but there are many more that we could not count. There are some days when the earth unearths its corpses.
The women, during those days of May, erected and defended the barricade at Place Blanche. They held on until death. One of them, Blanche Lefebre, came to see me as if visiting the Delta barricade. We still thought we were winning then.
An insurgency wins well. But the Revolution was bled in the neck by the old fox Foutriquet, the army general of Versailles. Dombrowski walked past us, sad, on his way to be killed.
“It’s over,” he said to me.
I told him “No, no.” And he held out both hands to me.
I always escaped everything, I don’t know how. After all, those who wanted to have me took my mother captive to shoot her, since I could not be found. I went to free her by taking her place. She didn’t want me to, the poor dear woman; it took me a lot of lies to convince her, but she always ended up believing me.
So I convinced her to return home. It was near the Montmartre railway, at Bastion 37; there was the depot of the prisoners. The fragments of burnt paper, coming from the Paris fire, rose up like black butterflies. Above us floated, in red crepe, the dawn of the fire.
We still heard the cannon; we heard it until the 28th. And until the 28th we said The Revolution will take its revenge.
We were still naive, as we did not see the betrayal to come.
At this Bastion, in front of the large square of dust where we were held, were the bunkers under a mound of green grass. There, on the arrival of M. de Gallifet, two unfortunate people were shot in front of us who were struggling, not wanting to die. Perhaps they came out to insult us, for they were caught in the street and were not very tormented, believing that they would be set free.
M. de Gallifet’s speech, when he made the order to shoot the crowd if someone seemed to change places, frightened them, and they started to flee, seized with mad terror.
Although we all cried We do not know them; they are not ours! they were shot, not even being able to stand up for fear, the poor things. They were saying only that they were traders from Montmartre, and being so terrified, they weren’t able to find their address in their obscured memory to tell the crowd, or to recommend their children to those who would remain living, even if we hardly expected to get out.
These men looked alike and had to be brothers. It was believed that one of them said Helas! Me, I always believed that he had said Anne, and that it was his daughter How many were taken thus, who were enemies of the Commune, like the two unfortunate people of the Bastion 37? Strange things were happening.
Later, when we were marched from Satory to Versailles, an angry woman rushed in front of us, shouting that we had killed her sister, that she knew it, that there were witnesses. Suddenly two cries were uttered; her sister was among us, taken prisoner by Versailles.
Satory! We were told Come on! Go Up! when arriving in the heavy rain where the climb was slipping. Come on! Go up! as we had on the assault upon the Buttes. And all of us had mounted at a pace, and we were marching in front of the machine guns that were being rolled, telling an old woman who was with us, because her husband had been shot and who was going to cry, that it was just a formality that they did every time prisoners arrived.
She fell silent.
We were sure there would only be one cry: Vive la Commune!
The machine guns were withdrawn. While passing through Versailles, some of those who were too exhausted to walk were shot like hares. A National Guardsman had his jaw broken. I owe this justice to the riders who led us, those who also pushed back the exhausted prisoners, and the strange ladies who came to hunt prisoners.
In Satory, groups of prisoners were called in during the night. They rose from the mud where they were lying in the rain, and followed the lantern which walked in front; a shovel and a pickaxe were put on their backs to make their holes, which would be their graves when they were shot.
The sounds of the discharge broke out in the silence of the night.
After telling me that I would be shot in the dark the day after my arrival, I was told then that it would be in the evening, and then the next day, and I do not know why it was not done, for I was as insolent as one is in defeat with ferocious victors.
About thirty of us women were sent to the Chantiers prison at Versailles. There, we were all seated on the floor around a large square room on the first floor during the day, and at night we stretched out as best we could. At the end of a fortnight, a bale of straw was given to share between two prisoners.
Above, through a hole, we went up to the interrogation room. Another hole led to the ground floor, where the child prisoners were.Two lamps illuminated this morgue at night. The effect was completed by the sight of our rags suspended by strings above us, as over a body.
For a long time I was forbidden to see my mother, who often came from Montmartre without being able to speak to me. One day they had pushed her away while the poor woman had handed me a bottle of coffee. I threw this bottle at the head of the gendarme who had pushed her away. To the reproaches of an officer, I told him that my only regret was that I had addressed my rage at an instrument of power, instead of having hit those at the top, who were in command.
My mother was finally allowed to see me, but it was a long time after.
In the Chantiers prison, as everywhere, there were comic episodes.
A deaf mute spent a few weeks there for the reason of having allegedly shouted “Vive la Commune!” An old woman paralysed in both legs was held for having made barricades. Another circled the room for three days, her basket on one arm, her umbrella under the other. In this basket were songs she had composed for the Versailles government in praise of the victors. Her verses included ones such as this one:
Good gentlemen of Versailles, enter Paris.
But soon the laughter died on our lips. The mad cries of the prisoners who suffered; the worry we saw for parents and friends, whose fate we did not know; the poor mothers alone at home, worrying about their children in prison.
But we were proud in the face of the defeat, particularly in the face of the strange men and women who came to leer at the vanquished of Paris as you would go to see the zoo animals in the Jardin des Plantes. I did not see tears in their eyes, but only the smirks on their idiotic faces.
On the ground floor were the children whose fathers were no longer alive or were imprisoned; they were like Ranvier, of whom we were proud.
On the ground, silvery rows of insects snaked along the ground, going towards some kinds of anthills. They were enormous lice with their backs bristling and a little arched, having a vague resemblance to wild boars; there were so many that you thought you could heard a the noise of their hairs bristling as they moved.
As we were guarded by soldiers, the women could not easily change their clothes (those who had them). I was finally able to get hold of some. My poor mother brought them through the openwork door in the courtyard. She seemed very sad to me; it was just the beginning.
My nights were spent looking curiously at the staging of this morgue. I have always been taken by these kinds of paintings, so much so that I sometimes forget people in the terrible eloquence of things. Sometimes the morgue would take on the effects of a cut harvest at dusk or dawn. You could see empty ears of corn, or the meager bales of straw gilding like wheat under the sun. Other times there were great reflections, it looked like a harvest of stars; it was the day which, rising, dimmed the lamps.
On Marcerou’s arrival, the forty worst of us were sent from the Chantiers prison to the Correctional Service of Versailles; I was one of them.
As we were waiting in the courtyard, in the pouring rain, an officer expressed his regret to us. I liked it better like that though.
At the Correctional Service of Versailles, the regime of the forty worst found itself singularly softened. What happened at the Chantiers after our departure was told by Ms. Cadolle and Ms. Hardouin.
As a preparation for the judgment of the members of the Commune, they had tried a number of unfortunate women (as pétroleuses) who, having only been ambulance workers, were nevertheless condemned to death. Two of them, Retif and Marchais, had never seen each other; it was proved that they had accomplished a great many things together.
Eulalie Papavoine was, by chance of her name, condemned to forced labor; she was not not even related to the legendary Papavoine, but they were too happy to emphasise that name. Suetens, also a paramedic, accompanied them to Cayenne.
They were careful not to judge the most daring women, and they dared not execute either Élisabeth Retif or Marchais.
On September 3, the eve of the anniversary of the proclamation of the Republic, the judgment of the members of the Commune ended. By virtue of a decree of the Governor General of Paris, superior commander of the 1st military division, placed on the army’s agenda, the 3rd Council of War was thus composed.
MERLIN, colonel, president.
GAULET, battalion commander, judge.
DE GUIBERT, captain, judge.
MARIGUET, judge.
CAISSAIGNE, lieutenant, judge.
LÉGER, second lieutenant, judge.
LABBAT, adjutant non-commissioned officer.
GAVEAU, battalion commander in the 68th of the line.
SENART, captain, substitute.
The accused were classified in the following order
FERRÉ, ASSIS, URBAIN, BILHORAY, JOURDE, TRINQUET, CHAMPY, REGÉRE, LISBONNE, LULLIER, RASTOUL, GROUSSET, VERDURE, FERRAT, DESCHAMP, CLÉMENT, COURBET, PARENT.
Ferré did not want a defender; the president, under the terms of the law, automatically appointed Me Marchand.
Ferré thus explained the role of the Commune, describing how the coup d’état was prepared by the enemies of the Republic, even refusing Paris the election of its municipal council. He then said:
“The honest and sincere journals were suppressed; the best patriots were condemned to death. The royalists prepared for the partition of France. Finally, on the night of March 18, they believed themselves ready and attempted the disarmament of the National Guard and the mass arrest of the Republicans; their attempt failed before the entire opposition of Paris, and the very abandonment of their own soldiers. They fled and took refuge in Versailles.
In Paris, left to its own devices, energetic and courageous citizens tried to rein in order and security, risking their lives to do so. At the end of a few days, the population was called to the ballot and the Paris Commune was thus constituted.
The duty of the government of Versailles was to recognize the validity of this vote and to negotiate with the Commune to mediate between the parties; to quite the contrary, and as if the foreign war had not caused enough misery and ruins, the government added to its miseries civil war. Breathing only the hatred of the people and revenge, it attacked Paris and made it undergo a new siege.
Paris resisted two months and it was then arrested. For ten days the government authorized the massacre of citizens there without trial. These disastrous days take us back to those of Saint-Barthélémy. We have found a way to go beyond June and December. Until when will the people continue to be fired at?
I am a member of the Paris Commune. I am in the hands of its conquerors. They want my head: let them take it. Free I have lived, and I intend to die in the same way.
I only add one word. Fortune is capricious. I entrust the care of my memory and my vengeance to the future.
TH. FERRÉ. ”
Thus were pronounced the judgments:
Theophile FERRÉ, LULLIER. Death sentence.
URBAN. TRINQUET. Forced labor for life.
ASSI, BILHORAY, CHAMPY, REGERE, FERRAT, GREENERY, GROUSSET. Deportation to a fortified enclosure.
JOURDE. RASTOUL. Simple deportation
COURBET. Six months in prison and 500 francs fine.
DESCHAMPS. PARENT. CLEMENT. Acquitted of fine.
Ferré was assassinated on November 28, 1871, at seven o’clock in the morning, on the plain of Satory, with Rossel and Bourgeois. His father and brother were still prisoners. His mother had died mad, because, summoned to choose between handing over her son they were looking for, or her dying daughter, a few words escaped from the poor mother’s lips put the sleuths on their tracks.
Marie Ferré appealed to her courage and, the only one of her family who was free, went from prison to prison as long as her brothers and father were there. Her mother died in Sainte Anne.
They were fifteen executioners who were called the Commission of Pardons:
MARTEL, deputy for Pas-Calais.
PRIOU, from Haute-Garonne.
BASTARD, from Lot-et-Garonne.
Félix VoisiN, from Seine-et-Marne.
BALBA, from Gers.
Count of MAILLÉ, of Maine-et-Loire.
TANNEGUY-DUCHATEL, from Charente-Inférieure.
PELTEREAU DE VILLENEUVE, from Haute-Marne.
LACAZE, from the Basses-Pyrénées.
TALBANE, from the Ardèche.
BIGOT, from Mayenne.
PARIS, from Pas-de-Calais.
HORN, from the North.
MERVEILLEUX-DUVIGNAU, from Vienne.
Marquis de QUINZONNAS, of Isère.
Ferré and I were able to exchange a few letters from our prisons, which is why, upon being denounced, the prefecture of police sent me to Arras, where I remained on the day of the execution. I expected that.
At the Versailles station, I met Marie, who was going to claim her brother’s body. She was very pale, but had neither tears nor weakness. She looked like a dead woman. She was all in black; her big curls of brown hair were carved on her pale face as though on marble. She wasn’t any colder when I arranged her in her coffin.
The earth was all white with snow, it was six months since the heat of the killings had ended. On November 28 the cold assassinations began.
And so we have the dead and the hot slaughter and the cold quarry.
Flourens was killed in an ambush behind closed doors, to punish him for letting certain people slip away on October 31, through the windows, doors and water closets, when he did not hunt for the vanquished.
And Duval, and Varlin, and Cerisier, and old Delescluze, the great Jacobin, and all the others, a list of whom would fill volumes of books, as well as all the strangers who now sleep in Paris.
Sometimes, in a cellar or street corner, we find skeletons and we do not know where they come from; this is called a mysterious affair. Wasn’t everything a mass grave in aide of the victory of the royalists of Versailles?
And the plain of Satory, if we searched it, wouldn’t we find corpses there? It was in vain that they were covered with quicklime everywhere. The plow will turn over, and the raised paving stones will show it.
Today they are ossuaries; fifteen years ago they were slaughterhouses. And the catacombs where they hunted the Federals by torchlight, with dogs, like beasts. Do you believe that there are no modern skeletons among the centuries-old bones? And the denunciations in such large numbers that they end with disgust, and the foolish fear, and all the loathing… all the horror!
I have letters from that time; here is one I addressed to General Appert:
Versailles prison, December 2, 1871.
Sir,
I’m starting to believe in the triple murder on Tuesday morning.
If they don’t want to judge me, they know enough about me. I’m ready and the Satory plain is not far away. You all know that if I got out of here alive I would avenge the martyrs!
Long live the Municipality
LOUISE MICHEL.
They did not want to send me to the post at Satory, and yet I am still there, seeing death mowing the people down around me. No one knows among those who have not experienced this immense void what courage it takes to live.
Let’s have no weakness. Yes, long live the Dead Commune! Long live the Living Revolution!
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 16
In June 1872, we counted 32,905 decisions handed down by the Versailles courts; there were already 72 death sentences and this was still going on, not to mention 33 people condemned to death by custom; in total, there were 105 people that year sentenced to capital punishment.
They were still shooting people at Satory when we embarked at Auberive, just as they were still sending new deportees there when the amnesty came ten years later.
46 children under 16 were placed in reformatories, to punish them, no doubt, because their fathers had been shot. They also had their heads crushed against the walls, but that was during the heat of the struggle.
In the salons of the Elysee, Foutriquet went to meet the Duke of Nemours. In the course of the evening, the count and countess of Paris also arrived, along with the duke of Alençon, and the princes and princesses of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.
The presence of the princes of Orleans was the event of this reception. It was the third dinner offered by M. Thiers, the Orleanist President of the Republic; after that it was MacMahon, Marshal of the Empire, and the more it changed, the more it was the same. We did not think of the voyage with bitterness. Wasn’t it better not to see any more, in fact? I must have found the Canaques good after what I had seen; there I found the Caledonian sun better than the French sun. I knew well that my mother, still strong, was staying with her sister; I therefore passed the time without seeing beneath her calm; not seeing, as I have seen since, her silent and terrible grief.
As in the days when I was a boarder at Chaumont, she brought me motherly treats before I left; my aunt was staying with her nearby at Clermont. Poor mother, how her old hands sent me little gifts in Clermont last year, all over again!
A year after my conviction, my uncle was still expiating on the pontoons for the crime of knowing his niece. They only released him after my departure. My two cousins were also imprisoned.
We hardly bring happiness to our families and yet we love them all the more because they suffer with us. The more we are together, all the more happy we are to remember the rare moments spent at home, as we know how much these moments will be fleeting, and missed. I see Auberive again, with the narrow white pathways winding under the pines; the large dormitories where, as in the old days at Vroncourt, the wind blew like a storm, and I saw the silent lines of prisoners beneath white headdresses, like those of peasant women, each kerchief pleated around the neck with a pin.
For variety, some of our people had been sentenced to forced labor; one, Chiffon, putting her number on her arm, and for having cried Vive la Commune! Several died, whom we already recognised as too weak to make the departure. Poirier, so courageous during the siege and the Commune; Marie Boire, and many others like her, who did not return. One who died in Caledonia, Madame Louis, was already old, and spent her last hour calling for her children whom she was never to see again.
Elisabeth de Ghi, now Mme Langlais, died on the ship during the return voyage. She would have liked to see Paris again; they were still a long way off when, between two cannon shots, their body slipped through the portholes to the bottom of the water.
Marie Schmidt, the brave woman, died last year at the rue de Sèvres hospice; in 1871 she had been an ambulance driver and soldier. Work is rare on the return from exile, and misery kills quickly.
Sleep in peace, the valiant, under the cyclones, under the waves or in the common grave; you are the happy ones.
Of the living, I say nothing. Yet they fight the harsh fight of life against these days without work; that is to say, without bread. The deportation will have, like the journey, its own story in this book.
Of those who went to Cayenne, two died: Élisabeth Retif, the poor and simple girl who knew well how to raise the wounded under the fire of bullets, but who never understood that anyone could find harm there.
Hail to the dark dead who suffered for those who will come after us, without the distant horizon shaking in their shadow, in sheaves of stars, the dazzling dawn. When I speak of the survivors of the struggle, of exile and deportation, I will mention the courage of Madame Lemel, during the fight and in New Caledonia; it will not hurt her, because she works with a whole nest of convicts from the Commune, recovered from the Versailles justice.
In the details that follow, I will only talk about those to whom we do not say:
“Ah! So you come from the Commune prison! Well, come on, there is no more work for you here.”
This kind of thing has been seen; it is often seen.
I recall the voyage on the Virginie, the ship at full sail and the great waves. I see the places there in detail. On the Ducos peninsula, living by the sea, near the western forest, we could hear the waves eternally beating the stories around us, the summits of the crevassed mountains from which, during heavy rains, torrents poured noisily; and at sunset, the sun disappearing in the waves.
In the valley, niaoulis with white trunks twisted around one another, having a phosphorescence on their silvery leaves. On the other side of the mountain was Numbo, with its earthen houses surrounded by lianas with arabesques.
From afar, to see their capricious groups among the trees, I am charmed, and it seems to me that we are still there. Each had built his nest or dug his lair according to his character. Father Croiset had made himself a unique example: a fireplace; one could almost, on the days following March 18, make coffee there without setting the roof ablaze. G. had turned over half of the mountain to cultivate crops. One would have said one was at Robinson’s; there was in his hole, under the rock, a whole menagerie in the middle of which his cat sat enthroned. Champy’s house on the opposite coast was so small that if you had to sit several people in the house, it was like you were in a basket. In this basket, the wind made its handle dance when it blew, to decorate the oxen of the Île Nou and the northern forest.
At the top, like a lookout, is Burlot; one hears the rather sonorous voice of his hen who cries like a donkey, warning when someone enters. Each of us has our own pet; cats dominate: we take them with us when we go to dinner with a friend.
Suddenly, like in the days of the Gauls, a formidable accent crosses the air: it’s Provins, chatting from one bay to another with someone; the answer often does not reach him, for he is the only one to have such a strong breath.
Here is the forge of Father Malézieux, the hut where Balzenq makes his essence of niaouli; one would think oneself in an alchemist.
For all this, the procedures were as rudimentary as they were in the time of the Stone Age. You had to make your own tools by replacing as best you could the things that were missing or that did not work. I see Bunant, his hatchet on his belt, going to the woods, equipped like a robber, as was his wife. On the side of the military camp was the prison. Many of our friends made long stays there under Governor Aleyron, it was always full; as there were no separate cells for women. We excused ourselves once and for all by having ourselves sent from Numbo to West Bay, which put an end to my course for young people; this course had been started by Verdure. Our rebellion and the conditions that we were forced to endure to make us consent to live in West Bay belong to the second part of my work. We gave in because there would have been more trouble still for M. Ribourg in allowing us to stubbornly stay; there was, I repeat, no separate prison to house half a dozen women.
I have spoken of the course for young people that Verdure started. Verdure was the first one I asked for when I arrived at the Ducos peninsula. He had just died.
The correspondence was not yet regular; the letters he had waited for so long arrived together, in bundles, after his death. The teacher is sleeping there; what has become of the pupils now?
Muriot killed himself. The others went through life finding that their title of deportee did not open the workshop doors to them.
Several had remarkable intelligence. Aleyron’s government was a time of raging madness; a deportee was shot for returning home a few moments after the appointed time; there were insane provocations at appeals; the deportees, as a punishment, were deprived of bread.
The funny thing was, during the night there was always the sound of sentries around Numbo, whose calls in the middle of the silence had the effect of an opera.
I admit to having taken great pleasure in this show. It looked like a performance of the Tower of Nesle with a huge enlargement of the stage. By chance, the start commenced with beautiful deep voices. Then the voices grew hoarse and we were jaded by the effect.
Every crowd seems small to us after being in the human colonies; all travel seems short to us after crossing the whole world; and the days pile up without hardly thinking, as each year we turn the hourglass.
Near the prison, on the slope of the mountain, under a verandah covered with lianas, was the post office. On courier days, one climbed this hill at the exact time with anxiety. If the letter had been delayed, we had to wait for the next courier.
You could only get an answer to a letter after six to eight months; the time to come and go was, in the end, regularly only six months.
Oh my dear letters, with what joy I received them! The one who wrote to me the most is dead now that I’m back. M. de Fleurville, the inspector of the schools of Montmartre, had taken charge of my affairs, that is to say, a certain number of my debts. It was he who published my children’s stories, the Contes d’enfants that I wrote in Auberive and in New Caledonia, he wrote to me about new discoveries, because we had no journals.
It seems to me that I am reliving those days gone by. I go down the small hill, my letters in hand: those of Marie, all full of flowers; those of M. de Fleurville, where he scolds me just as much as in the days of Montmartre; and those of my mother, where she assures me that she is still strong. She was still telling me that at the beginning of last December, just like she did then, preventing me from knowing about her real condition.
To return from the post office to West Bay we followed the seashore; a pungent and powerful smell filled the air. It smelt good, the great waves. Along the way, in L.’s hut you could hear his guitar, made in Numbo by Father Croiset. The weather was good on the shore, and we thought of the hardest-hit ones, those who were imprisoned on the Île Nou. Alas, this was where the best people were. We were eager for their news, very difficult to obtain through a thousand obstacles.
Here are the white robes of the Arabs, passing through the valley. Sometimes funny things happened.
So one day, a simple discussion I had with a comrade almost took on the proportions of an event. We were chatting about the Kanak revolt, a burning question on the Ducos peninsula, and we spoke so loudly, and we deployed such volumes of voices, that a supervisor came running from the post, believing it was a riot; a revolt. He withdrew all taken aback and ashamed, noting that there were only two of us.
After five years on the peninsula, I was able to go as a teacher to Noumea, where it was easier for me to study the country; where I could see Canaques from various tribes; I had a whole colony at my Sunday classes at home.
Shortly after my departure from the peninsula, some of my friends from Ile Nou arrived there. It was a great joy for the deportation. We loved them better than everyone else because they were in more pain, and that kept them as proud as on the days of May.
Over there, by the sea, sitting on the rocks, events came back to us rising like the waves. Days fell on days in silence, and the past, like a gray snow of grasshoppers, swirled around us.
Many have remained, fallen over there, in a deep sleep. So many ghosts! There are sweet ones; there are terrible ones.
There, under the cyclones, with those who, in dying, remembered and watched revenge rise, there are gracious ghosts. From a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl, Eugénie Piffaut, to the children in Théophile Place, who hold in their little hands in their coffins, the stanzas written for their births. Blanche Arnold, like a gentle liana flower, sleeps under the waves, dead on the way back.
With you I end these pages, frail and charming shadows of young girls and little children!
The Memoirs of Louise Michel, Chapter 17
At the same time that I learned of the amnesty against the Communards, I also learned of the illness of my poor mother, who had just had a stroke. Nostalgia was killing her; I knew that if I did not return, she would die then.
Now I myself have laid her down in her coffin, like Marie, and beside her.
One I lay in my red shawl, the other in a soft blanket that she loved (red too). So they are for the eternal winter of the grave, and I am asked if I am taking care of the freedom and the spring which blossoms on the branches again.
Am I a coward to have locked my heart underground? No, since I will remain standing until the last moment.
The winter which followed our return, Théophile Ferré was transported from the place where he had been for ten years into his family’s grave. A friend still had a flag from ’71; he brought it to wrap the bones in. A bouquet of red carnations is buried there with him.
Have you noticed, in looking at life, that it seems dark; memories gravitate there, attracted by one another, like the planets in the depths of space.
I returned from deportation still faithful to those principles for which I was willing to die. I will write more about the conferences that I had the honour of being asked to attend a little later.
For now I provide a testimony that cannot be suspected of being menacing. It is that of M. Andrieux who had the stupid idea, to ruin us, of founding a newspaper which he himself ruined with all the rest. It’s a strange thing for an intelligent man to use this kind of combat!
The treacherous part of the matter failed, moreover, because, like my comrades, I had several letters inserted in the newspaper in which I declared to only respond to insults addressed to the government and not to those sent foolishly to other groups who followed their own path to revolution. I have always fought against evil principles; as for men, they matter as little to me as myself.
I add nothing here, this part being only the framework of those which will follow.
Here is the account given by M. Andrieux of the first conference which I have just mentioned.
***
MLLE LOUISE MICHEL AND THE SOCIAL REVOLUTION
“November 21. Today, at one o’clock, the first conference in honor of Louise Michel took place at the Élysée-Montmartre.
At half past one, Louise Michel went up to the platform to the shouts of Long live the Social Revolution! She added The Dead Revolution is the Risen Revolution! The audience responded with cries of Long live Louise Michel! Long live the Revolution!
They brought the heroine several bouquets. Gambon affirmed that the Commune was more alive than ever, and that France would always be at the head of the revolutions.
He extolled the virtues of Joan of Arc, victim of the ingratitude of a king, and said that Louise Michel was a victim of the ingratitude of the Republic.
Louise Michel took the floor again.
Let’s hope, she said, that we will no longer see Paris turned into a river of blood. The day when all those who slandered the Commune will no longer be here, we will be avenged, and the day when the Galliffets and others have fallen from power, we will have the well-deserved fruits of the people.
We no longer want revenge by blood; the shame of these men will be enough for us. The religions dissipate in the blast of the wind and we are now the sole masters of our destinies. We accept the ovations given to us, not for ourselves, but for the Municipality and its defenders. We will accept those who will want to march with us, although they were against us in the past, for the triumph of the Revolution.
Long live the Social Revolution! Long live the nihilists! These cries were repeated, along with those of Vive Trinquet. Long live Pyat! Long live the Municipality!
1st December.
Yesterday, a private conference was held in Salle Graffard for the benefit of amnesties. Citizen Gérard thanked Louise Michel for the assistance she was willing to lend in organising this meeting; he saluted in her the principle of hatred which alone makes great revolutionaries and great things.
He presented her with two bouquets. Louise Michel replied that she accepted them in the name of the Social Revolution and in the name of the women who fought for their emancipation.
Yes, it is the people that I greet here, continued the citizen Michel, and in them, the Social Revolution. (Applause and shouts of “Vive la Commune!”)
The time when we were machine-gunned at Satory is present before our eyes; we can still see the men who were judging us, as well as the murderer of Transnonain, the Bazaines and the Cisseys. The men who we believed were lost forever come back now with their heads held higher than ever. The reaction is no more than a corpse raised by the government, and it will be crushed like a reptile when it wants to get in our way.
Today, the Government is prominent, but it is a ghost-ship. It is the people who remain convicts, still dragging their chains, who will deliver the men who sacrificed themselves for us. We will conquer our own freedoms.
Louise Michel added that she discredited the Government, this “ghost-ship” “for the benefit of amnesties.”
***
I have always been faithful to my purpose. It costs me my mother’s life, my poor beloved mother. When will I, too, sleep in the shade of the red and black flags?
In the meantime, let the roses be stripped from the graves on these pages of mourning.
THE ROSES
Bloom, fragrant roses;
Flowers of hope and summer,
The scented breezes
Take you free.
Rose of the wild rosehips
That the rising sun gilds,
You will fall in the stormy wind
Leaf by leaf in the torrent.
White roses, proud and beautiful,
Bloom for charming minds
That death covers with its wings.
May roses, soft and frail,
Adorn children’s graves.
O roses, the wind has wings;
But as long as the ground is warm
New roses will be born,
All fresh for the tomb.
And you, rose of the cemetery,
Blossom gently in the shade.
And, white or red, in the ivy
Lift up your beaming face.
In Clermont, in front of my window,
A large white rosebush bloomed.
When the flower opened we saw appear
On its petals, a trickle of blood.
My mother loved these beautiful roses.
It was celebrated when I could
Send some fresh open blooms.
She will never have one again.
END OF THE FIRST PART.
PART TWO
The Memoirs of Louise Michel,
Part 2, Chapter 1
As the seed contains the tree, all life, at its beginning, contains what it will be; what it will become, in spite of everything.
I will try to trace back to the source of my ideas, and perhaps of some events in my existence.
A piece of verse found in my old papers shows some of it; always lay the corpse down before searching it. There she is:
THE TRIP
As on the threshold of a desert, the horizon is immense.
Child, where are you going by this new path?
Over there in the unknown; what is your hope?
Where do I go? I don’t know. Towards the good, towards the beautiful.
I don’t want to cry or turn my head;
If it weren’t for my mother, ah I’d go much further still,
Through the uncertain life where the storm blows,
I would go, as one follows the distant sounds of a horn.
A fanfare rings in the depths of dark mystery,
And many others go there whom I want to rediscover.
Listen! We hear heavy footsteps on the earth.
It is a human step; I would join in with those steps.
I loved the shade of the enclosure full of wild weeds;
I loved the winter nights when the wolf came howling
Through the breaches of the wall; in summer, heavy sheaves;
And in the holm oaks, the gusts of the wind.
Young girl, will you sit calm and peaceful
And like the birds, will you build your safe, sweet nest?
Listen! It is time to flee the painful path
Where your fate will be miserable and cursed.
What does it matter? Leave me. See the grains of sand
And the heaps of ripe wheat, and in the deep skies
The worlds are heaped up; is it not all the same?
Where all this goes, this is where we are going.
This is where we are today. I do not know if my study will be long; my intention is to search it relentlessly.
Perhaps one could call it psychobiology. I do not know if I am still in a state of barbarism that finds this all incomprehensible. People find it interesting to torture an unfortunate animal, to study the mechanisms of its body, which we know more or less, and which we will never know better because we study how pain affects its organic functions. Wouldn’t it be better to study the functions of its heart?
It is these phenomena of the heart and the brain, I feel, which go to the heart of the life of a human beast. I start with this question.
Unfortunately it seems to me impossible that anything survives of us after death, any more than there remains something from the flame when the candle is out. And if the part which thinks can disappear, piece by piece, when the lobes of the brain are removed one after the other, there is no doubt that death, by burning the brain, extinguishes thought.
However, if there was eternity, like the immensity before and after us, and the part that thinks goes into the unknown currents of electricity, and is absorbed there as the elements of the body return to the material elements, that would not be a miracle. Visible or invisible, it would only be nature again.
I have often wondered why we imagine that this electricity, unconscious or not as it goes into this invisible melting pot, would be entitled to God any more than all the other organisms that swarm the earth.
Unfortunately, the thought secreted by the brain cannot subsist when what produced it no longer exists. But we can see that the dominant ideas of a whole life have their material causes in this or that impression, or in the phenomena of heredity or others. It often happens to me, going back to the origin of certain things, that I find myself to have a strong feeling that I still experience through the years.
Here is one that had multiple consequences for me: the sight of a decapitated goose that still walked with its bloody neck upright, stiff, with the red wound where the head was missing. A white goose with drops of blood on its feathers, walking like drunk, while on the ground lay its head, eyes closed, thrown into a corner.
I was probably very small at the time, for Manette held me by the hand to cross the hall as if on a journey. It would have been impossible for me then to reason this impression, but I find it at the heart of my pity for animals, then at the heart of my horror for the death penalty.
A few years later, a parricide was executed in a neighboring village. At the hour when he was to die, the sensation of horror I felt for the murder of the man mingled with the remembrance of the murder of the goose.
Yet another effect of this feeling I had as a child was that, up to the age of around eight or ten, the appearance of meat made my stomach turn. It took a great deal of will and the reasoning of my grandmother to overcome my disgust. My grandmother felt that I would have too many great emotions in life to let myself go with this single one.
The stories of torture heard at the storytelling evenings at Vroncourt, on those evenings when Manette and I obtained the rare permission to go there, perhaps helped to keep the impression of the goose alive.
I loved to hear these stories to the sound of the spinning wheels, knitting needles purring with a small dry noise, and the snow, the great white snow, falling softly outside, stretched out like a shroud across the earth, sometimes lashing the face.
We had to come home at ten o’clock, but we always came back later. It was the beautiful moment Marie Verdet put her sweater on her knees, her eyes widened under her headdress which was pushed over her face in a peak, and she told the stories of dreams, the ghost-in-flames, the white washerwomen, the witches’ combs, all in her broken voice of almost a hundred years old. That there was the setting which suited these stories; her sister Fanchette had seen it all, and she shook her head approvingly.
We always left with regret, Nanette and I, skirting the walls of the cemetery where we never saw anything but the snow, and heard the winter breeze.
From my evenings at the village church emerged a feeling of revolt that I have also experienced very often since.
The peasants grow wheat, but they don’t always have bread. An old woman used to tell how, with her four children during a ‘bad year’ (I think what they called a ‘bad year’ was a year when the monopolists had starved the country), neither she, nor her husband, nor the little ones had eaten every day; there was nothing left to sell; they only had the clothes they had on their backs. Two of their children had died from hunger. Those who did have wheat no longer wanted to give them credit; not even a measure of oats, to bake a little bread.
“But we must resign ourselves,” she said. “Not everyone can eat bread every day.”
The husband wanted to knock out the usurer who, when their children were dying, had denied them credit by saying he would only do so if they paid back double the sum in a year. But the other two children were still alive; they were working at the very house that the husband wanted to ruin, and the wife prevented her husband from confronting him.
“Poor people must suffer what they cannot prevent,” she had told him.
When she told me all this with her calm air, my eyes were hot with anger.
I told her, “You had to let your husband do it. He was right.”
I imagined the poor little ones dying of hunger, and felt with force the whole picture of misery, which she made so heartbreaking that you felt it inside of you. I saw the husband, with his torn blouse and his feet bare in clogs, go begging for credit from the wicked usurer and coming back by the roads with nothing, bereft. Then I saw him threatening vengeance, when the little ones were lying cold on the handful of straw that was all they had left to them, and his wife, stopping him when he wanted to avenge the lives of his own children and those of others. And then I thought of the two brothers, growing up with this memory, having to go and work with this man, the cowards.
It seemed to me that if the usurer had entered at that moment, I would have jumped at his throat to bite him, and I said all that. I was outraged by this belief she had that not everyone could have bread every day; this stupidity of the herd terrified me.
“You mustn’t talk like that, little one,” said the woman. “It makes the good Lord cry.”
Have you seen the sheep stick their throats out for a knife? This woman had the brain of a sheep.
It was this story that I was thinking of when, at catechism, I energetically supported the opposite of the famous proverb
“Well-ordered charity begins with oneself!”
The old priest (who believed, that one) called me over. I feared a punishment; it was to give me a book.
Well, that did the rest of the job, that book: to give me the horror of conquerors with the horror I already felt for other human vampires. They were sort of paraphrases of the psalms of exile. “The harp hangs from the willows on the shore,” or “Captive Jerusalem has seen its streets weep.”
And I cursed those people who crush peoples as well as those who starve them, without realising to how much of a height I would later see these kinds of crimes rise.
A detail, by the way; even an admission. This book was bound in the style of the small encyclopedia that the “big” M. Laumond once had, and I admit that from the moment the priest put it near me, I was preoccupied by what might well be there, under this blanket of brown skin. It was not meant to be a child’s book; perhaps it was just my preoccupation with books that escapes once more.
Since I spoke of the small volume that I once stole from M. Laumont; since I said that each of us, I believe, is capable of all the good and all the evil which is in its make-up, I will admit again that as a child, I used to steal at home without remorse. I would steal money, when there was any, or fruits, vegetables, etc.
I gave it all to others on behalf of my parents, which made for good scenes when some people took it into their heads to thank them. I laughed at it, incorrigible as I was. One year my grandfather offered me twenty sous a week if I would stop stealing, but I found that if I agreed to this arrangement, I would lose too much to agree to it.
I had hidden keys to open the cabinet that held all the pears and other things in it, where I left small notes in place of what I had taken. There was this one, for example:
You have the lock but I have the key.
Eventually, the land brought in so little that neither my uncle, who was working on them, nor us, managed to make ends meet; I felt that many years like these followed one another. And I thought how often, people could not always help others, and that something other than charity was needed for everyone to have bread.
As for the rich, my word, I had little respect for them. Then communism occurred to me.
The hard work of the land appeared to me as it is, with man bending like an ox over the furrows, keeping the slaughterhouse for the beast when it is worn out, and the beggar’s bag for man when he can no longer work: ‘the fabric rifles’, as they say in Haute-Marne.
We do not amass income by working the land, we amass it for those who already have too much. The flowers of the fields, the beautiful fresh grass, you think that the little ones who keep the cattle play amidst that? They only ask for the grass to stretch out and sleep a little at noon; I saw them.
The shade of the woods, the fair harvests that the wind makes rise like waves, isn’t the peasant too tired to find it all beautiful? The work is heavy, the day is long, but he resigns himself, always resigns himself. Is not the will broken? Man is overworked like an animal.
So he has no energy for any feeling of injustice; he is half dead and works for the exploiter without thinking.
Many men, like the old woman from the church, said to me, “You must not say that, little one, for it offends God.”
Yes, they answered that when I told them that everyone has the right to everything there is on earth; those things in their nest, just as the chicks of the same spring, should glean the harvests together. My pity for all that suffers goes far; for the mute beast, perhaps even more than for man; my revolt against social inequalities goes even further; it grows, always grows, through the struggle, through the sacrifice; it came back with me from across the ocean, and it dominates my pain and my life.
I come back to man’s harshness towards animals. In summer, all the streams of the Haute-Marne, all the damp meadows in the shade of the willows, were filled with frogs; we heard them on fine evenings, sometimes just one, sometimes the whole choir. Who knows if they did not once inspire the monotonous choirs of the ancient theatre. Torn from dung corners, we saw them tortured by children in bright sun. Their enormous soft eyes shined as though in reproach.
Children tortured, too, the broods of birds; if they escaped, they were caught in traps that lined the paths in the woods. There they died, caught by the foot and fluttering, desperate to the end.
And the old dogs and old cats, who I’ve seen them throw to the crayfish. If the woman who threw her beast there had fallen into the hole, I wouldn’t have reached out to her.
Since then I have seen the workers in the fields treated like animals, and those in the towns dying of hunger. I saw bullets raining down on the unarmed crowds. I have seen the riders smash the crowds with the chests of their horses; the beast, better than man, lifts its feet for fear of crushing the people, and rushes with regret under the blows. Oh! Georgics and Eclogues deceive us about the happiness of the fields! Descriptions of nature are true; the happiness of the field-workers is a lie.
The earth! These words are at the heart of my life, as they were in the big Roman history book with pictures, where the little M. Laumont taught the whole family on both sides to read.
My grandmother taught me to read with it, too; showing me the letters with her large knitting needle. The book was placed on the same desk where she made me sing solo from the grand old solfeggios of Italy which she herself had learned.
Raised in the countryside, I understood the agrarian revolts of old Rome; over this book I shed many tears. The death of the Gracchi oppressed me, as later the gallows of Russia would, too. It was impossible, with all this, to not throw my life into the Revolution.
I will end this chapter with the accusation, often brought against me, by certain friends and eyewitnesses. It seems that at the Perronnet barricade in Neuilly, I was accused of being negligent when I ran out from battle to help a cat in danger.
Well! yes, but for that I didn’t abandon my duty. The unfortunate beast, huddled in a corner torn with shells, cried like a human being. Well, yes, I went to get the cat, but it did not last a minute. I put it almost safely there, only a short step away. We even collected it afterwards.
Another animal story that is more recent. Mice appeared in my cell in Clermont; I had a pile of tapestry wool sent by my poor mother and my friends. I used it to plug up the holes where the mice were.
But one night, during the night, a poor little cry was heard behind this hole; a cry so plaintive that it would have taken a heart of stone not to open it. That’s what I did immediately, and the beast came out in front of me.
Was the mouse impudent, or a beast of genius who knew how to judge her world? I don’t know, but from that moment on she came brazenly up to my bed, where she took bites of bread left there, nibbling them at ease, perfectly mocking the movements I made to make her leave, and even worse, making a pantry of the spot under my pillow.
She was not in the cell when I left; I could not put her in my pocket, and I do not know what has become of the poor little one. I admit that when I left I recommended her to everyone’s pity.
Going back to the cradle or to certain circumstances which strike the cerebral organism, we often find the living source of the rivers which carry life away; the starting point of successive comparisons.
Other times, an idea suddenly arises, while others disappear, just as it is the weather which raises the volcanoes under the old continents, and germinates new senses for the next cataclysm.
Thought, rolling through life, transforms and grows, involving a thousand unknown forces. Yes, of course, the future man will have new meanings. We can feel them dawning in the being of our time.
The arts will be for all… the power of the harmony of colours, the sculptural grandeur of marble, all of this will belong to the human race. Developing genius instead of extinguishing it, artists riveted to the past will also slip away from their old wreck; we have to weigh anchor everywhere.
Come on, come on, art for all, science for all, bread for all! Hasn’t ignorance done enough harm? Isn’t the privilege of knowledge more awe-inspiring than that of gold? The arts are a human need, they are needed by all, and only then will the human flock be the human race.
Who will sing this Marseillaise of art, so high and proud? Who will announce the importance of our thirst for knowledge, of the intoxication of marble carved into cords of flesh, of the instruments emulating human voices, of canvases palpitating like life?
The magnificent and voiceless marble would be an awe-inspiring poem of human claim. But no! Neither marble, nor colours, nor songs, can say it alone, this Marseillaise of the new world! We must all deliver everything, beings and the world, worlds perhaps, who knows? Barbarians that we are!
What do you want us to do with the crumbs of bread you give to us, the disinherited crowds? Why do you want bread to be made without the arts, without science, without freedom?
Come on, come on, let each of our hands take a torch, and let us walk in the light with rising step.
Arise all, great starhunters! To the bold boatmen with sails extended: you who know how to die
Come on, all of you, heroes of the legends of the times that are about to arise!
We speak of our ancestors. Over there, fallen with the red roses of the field, dead with the bees, are family legends. Those who told me them will never speak them again.
Like the sphinxes, they bend over me, wrapped in shadow. With the green eyes of sea-maidens, they gaze under the water of the seas. With their tall, skinny witches’ waists, they run over moors. This distant legend goes from Corsica to the wild gorges; to the standing stones in Brittany haunted by chickens; from the red chasm of Flogof, where the Haute-Marne blows in lightning, to the dark lake of Créno.
So many things crowd around a miserable being to widen his horizon, to make him feel and see so that he suffers more; so that he better understands the desert of life where everything has fallen around him. But could we be useful without it? No, maybe.
Even though poetry also arises from the fact of my ancestry, we also become a poet in our solitudes, whether we line up verses or not.
The winds blow a wilder poetry than that of the north, sweeter than that of the seekers, following the great winter snow, or the spring breezes which shake the profuse hawthorn and roses in the hedges of our sunken lanes. Nanette and Joséphine, these two country girls I knew, were they not poets?
Did I repeat their song? l’Age nu deu bos, The Black Bird of the Woods, whose breath I found again by the sea, across the years and over the ocean. Yes, it was indeed the black bird of the wild field that I found at the edge of the waves, singing the brutal stanzas of the wilderness.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel,
Part 2, Chapter 2
Who tells us that our senses do not deceive us? We are absolutely like the traveller who thinks he sees the road walking, when it is he who is walking.
There is always progress. We know that the revolution swells our sails, and that it will one day arrive! It is also true that no one can be praised for what he does, since he does it because he likes it; there is no heroism, since one is only gripped by the greatness of the work to be accomplished, and one always remains below the work itself.
They say I am brave; it is because in the idea, in the staging of danger, my artistic senses are captured and charmed, like a bard, by the pictures which remain in my mind, the horrors of the struggle.
Thus, in March 71, the parade of prisoners going from Montmartre to Satory is still present to me in all its details. We were walking between horsemen, it was dark. There could be nothing more horribly beautiful than the site where we were made to descend into the ravines, near the castle of la Muette.
The darkness, barely lit by pale moonbeams, transformed the ravines into walls, or gave them the appearance of hedges. The shadows of the riders formed a black fringe on each side of our long file, making the paths appear whiter; the sky, heavy with the next day’s heavy rain, seemed to descend on us. Everything was taking fading, dreamlike forms, except for the horsemen who held the head and the first groups of prisoners.
A large ray, filtering from below between the horses’ feet, shed light on them. Red shreds seemed to bleed on us and on the uniforms. The rest of the line stretched out in a long inky trail, ending in the darkness.
They said we were going to be shot there. I do not know why. They made us go up and I looked at this scene, not thinking any more about where we were. It was on the same date that we had fixed with Dombrowski to set up an ambulance at the Château de la Muette the year before.
This amounts to an impression; that of reconciliations. Seized by the idea, I have no merit in ignoring a danger if I did not think of it, or even if, seized by the scene, I looked at it and remembered. I am not the only one in love with the various situations which emerge from the poetry of the unknown.
I remember a student who, without sharing the least amount of our ideas (it is true that he was even less enamoured with the other side), came to shoot with us at Clamart and at Pierre’s mill. He brought a Baudelaire volume in his pocket. We read a few pages with great pleasure when we had time to read. I do not know what fate kept him with us. Together we experienced double luck, quite funny. We were having a coffee in the spot where a shell had already struck three of our members, in the face of death. Our comrades were impatient for us to withdraw; it seemed fatal to them. We moved. Then another shell fell there, shattering the empty cups.
He had, above all, a poet’s nature; there was no bravery either on his part or on mine. Was it bravery when, with charmed eyes, I looked at the dismantled fort of Issy at night, all white in the shadows; or when I saw the lines of us climbing the small steep mounds of Clamart; or when towards the Hautes Bruyères, I heard the red teeth of the machine guns on the horizon? It was beautiful, that’s all; my eyes served me like my heart; like my ear, charmed by the cannon. Yes, barbarian that I am, I love the cannon, the smell of gunpowder and the grape-shot in the air, but above all, I am in love with the Revolution.
This must have been the case with the wind that blew through my old ruined castle; with the old people who raised me; the loneliness and great freedom of my childhood; the legends; the scraps of science I poached from everywhere… all of this was to open me up, to give me the ear to hear all harmonies, and a mind that would be dazzled by all lights, and a heart to love and to hate; everything was merged in a single song, in a single dream, in a single love: the Revolution.
Have I ever been a believer in religion? Was I ever overcome by the overwhelming tenderness of a Tantum ergo, or carried on the wings of a Regina coeli? I don’t know. I loved the smell of incense like the smell of hemp; the smell of gunpowder like that of lianas in the Caledonian forests.
The light of the candles, the voices hitting a vault, the organ, all this is a sensation. It is the impression of wings flapping against a vault. I have experienced the vault in this way, while I was singing in church, when I was a headmistress at Mme Vollier’s. But it’s been a long time since that I no longer believe in religion, and realised that, even in doubting, it can be said that we don’t believe.
My ideas are therefore only truly the product of being a human organism, and yet it seems that sometimes they heat up and throws me over like a switchman drives a machine. This can be explained by observing since human beings are the product of their time, it is this time which raises them up, along with the other dust. The Baccalaureate Manual would answer that the mind, not being composed of parts, cannot dissolve; in addition to seeing it partially extinguish with this or that lobe of the brain, madness attacks it, partially or completely. Universal beliefs etc., are inclinations rooted in the heart of man, etc.
These are all the proofs that make me say: There is nothing after death.
Only one of these reasons, however, is sound. Npouonr, a single being, disappeared with its long ancestral line. It was a brute, like a beast or half-brutes like us, which gave it birth, but was forced to multiply for the sake of that which one calls humanity, which will arrive at this progress that we see without understanding, like a faraway light showing the happiness which we are eager to have, and which no one can have in the current circumstances.
I don’t know which poet said Every man has a slumbering pig in his heart. There is only one word to change for this to be true. Every man has a sleeping monster in his heart. Each dark monster is not the same monster, but each of us sometimes feels the ancestral type that dominates our lineage through millions of millions of centuries of transformations and revolutions.
Is this the beast we look like? Is it the beast we love? One may be the other. For me, I think it would be a tiger, a lion or a cat; I like the feline race. I especially like big beasts. That’s why, if I’m ever free, I’ll go where the beasts of the West are, and I’ll talk to them about the revolution. These too, the brigands, sometimes feel the savage ancestral lineage within them; they believe differently from us, but they believe! Between fanatics we will see.
With these thoughts we risk a bullet or the blow of a dagger, but they don’t make you dirty; death is clean.
An isolated life can only be interesting so long as it relates to the multitudes of lives that surround it. As each foolish loner is freed into a larger context, they become something.
This is why, more and more, associations based on rituals, or hampered by any ritual, will not make progress, until the day when they embrace the only viable association: that of revolutionary humanity. Until then, they are only waiting ghosts.
During the courageous march of the Freemasons in 1871, I experienced the impression of an assembly of phantoms rising up on the ramparts in front of the royalists gorging on the Revolution It was big and coldly beautiful, the same as what one feels in front of the dead.
Later, in New Caledonia, under the rejuvenation of the tropics, I saw the Freemasons again; they seemed to me animated by a great desire for progress, and took the trouble to take part: it was there where the sun was hot.
In Holland, since (in the motherland of the brave), it seemed to me that Freemasonry was undergoing the rejuvenation of spring.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel,
Part 2, Chapter 3
Men of England, wherefore plunged
for the lords who lay ye low?
SHELLEY.
Men of England, or of the world, it doesn’t matter, why plow for the masters who oppress you? Isn’t it the same everywhere? And yet you still plow, and the harvest follows the sowing.
If we act, it is likely that the gallows will await you. But this detail does not spoil the horizon, come on! There was a time when the idea of making a face at the poor puppets on the end of a string was unpleasant to me. I have since learned that in Russia they put you in a sack. In England, too, things are likely to be done properly. Germany has the block after Reinsord and the others. All this is only a form of death and the more dismal the staging, the more it is enveloped in the red gleams of dawn.
When I had preferences, I thought I preferred the scaffold from where I would greet the crowd. Next I preferred the firing squad on the Satory plain. The white wall of Père-Lachaise or some corner of a wall in Paris would have pleased me; today I’m jaded, and no matter how, no matter where, I won’t sulk. In broad daylight or in a wood, at night, what does that matter to me? I don’t know where the fight between the old world and the new will be, but wherever it is, I’ll be there.
Whether it happens in Rome, Berlin or Moscow, I don’t know, I will go, and probably many others as well. And wherever it is, the spark will reach the world. The crowds will be standing everywhere, ready to shake the vermin off their lion’s manes.
In the meantime, we still talk and hardly act; we are only the rumblings of a volcano. The lava will overflow when we are not thinking about it. We will dance again that evening in the Elysées, and the parliaments will still say It has been rumbling for a long time, it will always rumbling without being able to do anything about it. Then a great debacle will come, as if the uprisings of the peoples did not arrive at their hour, like those of the continents, the race being ready for a new development which will forge ahead without a mould.
My conferences abroad raised two questions in response to which I would have laughed without the respect we have for our convictions
1 ° Where did I find the money to travel?
2 ° What I was doing with the income?
The travel money, when it was not provided by the group that asked me to come, came from Henri Rochefort, who lent it to me and I never returned it to him. I did the return trip on the fees levied on the people attending the conferences. Friends paid for my rail tickets.
Income? Revolutionary groups know how it works, so I don’t have to worry about this question. I didn’t keep anything. The conferences in Brussels, about which more or less true gossip was made, passed suitably, apart from the third or fourth meeting where a young rascal, who claimed to be called Fallou, naively admitted to having come from Paris at the same time as me. Someone tried to create some gossip by claiming that I had asked that a statue be erected to M. Thiers in the name of the Social Revolution!!! He pretended to have a newspaper saying so, and a good number of people swallowed this blunder. It is probably because I had started an article saying “Foutriquet is dog-eared! He tried a child’s hand.” Despite the benches that were thrown onto the rostrum by the friends of order, the session ended, showing (by the example that we had in front of us, better than all the words in the world) that when they said ‘order’ they meant, the right to knock out those who claim that bees should not work forever for hornets.
After this magnificent spectacle of corporations, I had, in Ghent, the spectacle of a medieval scene in a medieval town at night, which added to these kinds of scenes.
Part of the room had been occupied by police officers sent from Paris, and the upper parts of the hall was occupied by students from Catholic universities; their ears were drawn in broad shadows. One of the officers, like a conductor, would regularly give the signal for the bastringue. That is to say, whenever he raised his stick, they would shout over us. If only there had been some real roars at this concert it would have had an effect, but in this case, they only made yelping sounds.
My friends made the mistake of asking that I quit the session. I did not want to; the voices of these little gentlemen would have eventually tired out, and the reasonable part of the room could have judged their conduct to the end. But I regretfully obeyed her will.
They forced me to leave; it was hardly worth it! My friend was separated from me and, in my turn, I tried to exercised authority with the coachman who, after half an hour of silence, where he whipped his horse without wanting to hear me, nor to feel when I pulled him by the arm, was finally forced to go back. We had to negotiate through the schoolboys who were now throwing stones at the meeting room. The windows of the carriage were broken.
The horse walked very slowly, and from time to time, in the pitch black darkness, a young head, red with the intoxication of the hunt, appeared at the doors between the shards of glass, shouting an insult. The city was unfolding before us, dark, as an old ghost town.
Through my concern for my friend Jeanne, I thought of the old days, the Artewelds; the time when the guilds killed those whom they thought wanted power with an axe. I watched the dark edges of the canal; it was a magnificent picture in the immense frame of the night and the water.
There was still a crowd in front of the meeting room; the students and those who were watching them; the middle ages stood assembled.
When I went downstairs to ask them, seriously worried, if they had seen the tall brunette who was with me and what they had done with her, since it was me alone they wanted to kill, a few, finally taking it seriously, made some inquiries.
So a police commissioner helped me to find her; a police commissioner from Ghent, who told me that he was not involved in what had happened except to help me find her, and who did in fact.
I even remember that, finding the students behaviour unsuitable, he stood in front of me, to my astonishment, because I expected to be taken to prison for having been insulted. This is how they would have done it in Paris.
In Holland, besides our friends whom I remember so fondly, and the students, curious to see up close what animals the revolutionaries are. I also met enemies who were more sincere, knowing us only through the gossip of reactionary newspapers, and whom, greatly astonished at having been deceived, later came to understand the revolutionaries.
London! Well, yes, I love London where my outlawed friends have always been welcomed. London, where old England is even more liberal in the shadow of the gallows than are the so-called republicans bourgeois in France, moreover who believe they are!
Do you imagine that those who commit crimes against peoples are all aware of what they are doing? There are those who delude themselves and would willingly give themselves the prizes of virtue and intelligence.
Come on then, intelligence is in the crowds. They don’t have science, it’s true, but with that, science today is unique. It will only open its buds tomorrow, at the right time, and tomorrow it will be for everyone.
If the people do not know certain things, they are not stubborn in claiming that glowworms are stars; it is always something. Before the London Congress, Gautier and I had received many anonymous warnings about certain agents from Mr. Andrieux. But who believes anonymous letters?
For my part, I had asked some of my friends in London to go see a lady who, it was said, had advanced money to Mr. Seraux. Our friends found the lady in an apartment which gave them the impression of having been immediately furnished; but on this impression alone, without proof, they were not to press an accusation. The lady gave them probable explanations, but neither they nor I could think that she represented M. Andrieux.
Whatever the trap set for us, it did more harm to those who set it, than to us. Seeing the grains of sand and the heaps of ripe wheat, and in the deep skies, the stars heaped up, isn’t all the same? Where it all happened, this is where we are going, and here comes the great harvest, pushed up in the blood of our hearts; the ears of grain will be heavier; they will be higher.
The sad days sway in the dark life where we must return; choruses that tear you apart and charm you at the same time.
The blood of the captive flows, flows.
The Bagaudes, the Jacques, all of you who wear an iron collar, let’s talk, while waiting for the hour. The dream emerges from the scents of spring; it is the morning of the new legend.
Do you hear, peasant, these passing breaths in the air? These are the songs of your fathers, the old Gallic bards.
The blood of the captive flows, flows.
See this dewy red on the earth? It’s blood. The grass on the dead grows taller and greener.
On this mass grave of peoples, on the earth, it must grow thickly, but when the people die of hunger they do not always have grass; it does not grow among the paving stones of the cities.
As long as it pleases him to be the ox of the slaughterhouse or the circus – the ox that opens the furrows, or the one that is dragged to the carnival – we will say it, the terrible chorus that both tears us apart and charms us:
The blood of the captive flows, flows!
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2 Chapter 4
The year of seventy-one! I open a notebook of mourning paper, on which Marie has transcribed a few of the poems I wrote. There are some written in red ink, still coloured vermilion, like blood.
Marie gave this notebook to her brother Hippolyte, who lent it to me; he won’t have it until after I am gone, and some more of the blank pages will be filled in.
Here are some pages of poems written in red ink
TO MY BROTHERS
Prison of Versailles, September 8, 1871
Pass, pass, hours, days,
Let the grass grow on the streets.
Fall down, things barely born.
Vessels, give yourselves ports;
Pass, pass, O deep nights.
Crumble, oh old mountains;
Dungeons, graves, waves.
Proscribed or mounted we will return.
We will return, this multitude without number;
We will come by all paths,
Vengeful spectres emerging from the shadows.
We will come shaking hands. Some dressed in pale shrouds,
The others still bloody,
Pale, under the red banners,
Bullet holes in their sides.
It’s all over. The strong, the brave,
All have fallen, my friends,
And the slaves are already crawling on their knees again,
The traitors and the debased.
Yesterday I saw you, my brothers,
Sons of the victorious people,
Proud and valiant like our fathers.
Go, the Marseillaise in your eyes.
Brothers, in the giant struggle,
I loved your fiery courage,
The red and thundering grapeshot,
The banners fluttering in the wind.
On the waves, by the great swell,
It is beautiful to tempt fate.
The goal is to save the crowd,
The reward is death.
Sinister and feeble old men,
Since you need all our blood,
Pour out its fertile waves,
Drink all of the red ocean;
And we, in our red banners,
Let’s wrap ourselves in them to die;
Together, in these beautiful shrouds,
We would be well to sleep there.
One of these documents was sent by me to the 3rd Council of War, which had judged the members of the Commune; but the Commission of Pardons is above all guilty of cold evasions. If the blood-drunk soldiers were up to their ankles, the so-called Commission of Pardons was up to their stomachs.
TO THE 3° COUNCIL OF WAR
September 4, 1871, prison of Versailles.
They are there, calm and sublime,
The elected officials of the free Paris,
And you charge them with your crimes,
Furious at their proud contempt.
They have to defend themselves from nothing,
For you made them cowardly.
They valiantly defended
Everything you just bought.
Cassaigne, Manguet, Guibert, Merlin, Executioner!
Gaveau! Gaveau!
Merlin, Gaulet, Labat, judging is beautiful.
All these times are your work,
And when better days come.
History, deaf to your rage,
Will judge you, lying judges.
And those who want prey,
Turning around, will follow your steps,
This strike of attacks,
Snitches, bandits, prostitutes.
Cassaigne, Manguet, Guibert, Merlin, Executioner!
Gaveau! Gaveau!
Merlin, Gaulet, Labat, judging is beautiful.
The punishment was not long in coming. Commander Gaveau, who everyone knows of; who said “the French Republic” and made impassioned indictments, died mad. They had had to lock him up for some time.
The newspapers of the time say that he suffered the most terrible agony imaginable; he thought he saw, during the whole day which preceded his death, fantastic personages whirling before his eyes; he felt like he was receiving hammer blows to the skull.
The expert Delarue, who had attested that the false evidence that Théophile Ferré had written Burn the Finance! was afterwards condemned for a false expert report which had sent a man to prison for five years.
It wouldn’t cost much more to send the rest of them to the wall at Satory.
The Donjeu farm, belonging to M. Peltereau de Villeneuve, was burnt down by accident. I do not know what accident Colonel Merlin also experiences, who, after having been a judge in the trial of the members of the Commune, commanded the troops who supervised the assassination of November 28.
Why would criminals escape the consequences of their actions more than others? Doesn’t everyone prepare their destiny? Didn’t Clément Thomas prepare in ’48 for what he found in ’71?
The trial of the members of the Commune was full of formal flaws. But the appeal in cassation presented by MM. Ducoudray, Marchand, and Dupont de Bussac had above all the object of seeing Versailles justice to the end; none of the condemned counted for it.
Mr. Gaveau had insulted Théophile Ferré during the trial by responding to his testimony by saying: “The memory of an assassin.” He worsened that prejudice by noting it in the minutes of the judgment.
The same M. Gaveau twice left the seat of the Public Prosecutor empty. He did not appear for even a moment at the audience of September 2, and did not even attend the reading of the judgment (against Théophile Ferré), a judgment in which forged documents appeared.
The members of the Commune did not conceal their actions; Ferré carried his responsibility with his head held high, all the way to the post of Satory ; the others did the same as they were led to prison and deportation. We wanted to add this to the list of the falsities, in support of our cause (including the falsity that we don’t even write in French!).
The hatreds which cling to us, poor grains of sand, are imbecile; they don’t see the storm which rolls us together against the old world. It was not easy to obtain a dismissal when one had done nothing; nor was it easy to be judged, when one felt responsible for one’s actions!
I told how I was sent to Arras by a maneuver of the police headquarters, instead of being judged. A name was crossed off the list of those sent to wait in distant prisons, and mine was put in place. I must say that the Council of War was unaware of it and did not even approve of it.
M. Marchand’s letter will show these calculated delays better than I could. The protest of which M. Marchand speaks in this letter, I wrote it, before leaving for Arras, on the Correction Register of Versailles.
I protested there, not against the prison, where we had found a treatment very different from Satory and Chantiers, but against the infamous manoeuver of this departure, since I belonged to the Councils of War and not to the police headquarters, which wanted to eternally defer my judgment, while insulting me in the trials of the other women (the (pétroleuse) trials of Retif and Marchais).
Here is the letter from Mr. Marchand:
Mademoiselle,
I will respond to your letter as soon as it is received. M. Ducoudray, to whom you wrote yesterday, on the 15th, died suddenly the day before yesterday from the rupture of an aneurism, in the cell where he was going to see Ferré.
Your protest at the registry is certainly worth more than a scene of violence. If you want to be judged promptly, you should write to General Appert or Colonel Gaillard, if necessary by registered letter and notification of receipt, so that the post office does not lose the letter.
Receive, Mademoiselle, my greetings.
H. MARCHAND, lawyer.
This November 16, 1871.
It wasn’t enough during the days of May when, like apple blossoms in spring, the streets were covered with white efflorescence but there were no trees; it was chlorine on the corpses.
An enormous number of missing people proves how the figures of the carnage were attenuated. The soldiers were weary; perhaps the machine guns were breaking down; the arms protruding from the ground, the howls of agony in the heaps of people who had been summarily executed, the mortality of the swallows, poisoned by the flies of the immense mass grave… all this caused cold killings to follow hot killings.
Those who did all this are perhaps closer to Charenton, with Gaveau, than to anything else. But I can’t go any further at this moment without leafing through some old papers. There are issues of the Révolution Sociale.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 5
By my honor, after the revelations that have been made to us, I feel it is my duty to include in my Memoirs certain articles of mine from the newspaper La Révolution Sociale.
The trap has often backfired against those who set it by increasing correspondence between revolutionaries.
However, it was only this morning that I noticed a small maneuver, which consisted of, when certain articles specifically attacked individuals rather than ideas (which is entirely contrary to my way of thinking), placing as an epigraph words of mine cleverly cut out so that some people would attribute the rest to me.
The result was personal hatreds, the unleashing of which contributed to the sentence that separated me from my mother and caused her to agonize for two years far from me, regaining life with each transfer, until the moment when I had to admit to her that instead of one year, I had been sentenced to six years; that instead of being near her at Saint-Lazare, I was to Clermont.
From that moment, she no longer even wanted to look out the window and only rose from her chair to lie on the bed, from which she would leave only for the coffin.
Yes, I could have gone abroad and taken her with me, instead of coming, as is customary, to face my judgment.
I could also have misled those who questioned me to determine whether I was responsible and mocked their clumsy tricks, sewn together with cables; but we do not shirk responsibilities, we do not. I responded to the esteemed scholars as if I suspected nothing, even though I knew perfectly well the source of this vengeance.
I return to La Révolution Sociale. I often protested, even within the paper itself, against things I found unintelligent, believing them less likely to be police traps given the anonymous accusations against the newspaper’s founder, Mr. Serraux.
The anarchist idea is not new. Old authors, writing in old French before Saint-Just, considered that anyone who assumes leadership commits a crime.
Before the boundless desert of the waves, I am not the only one who has reflected on the eternal truth: “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”
So, upon finding an anarchist newspaper upon my return, it was natural for me to jump headlong into the first invitation to collaborate.
I knew the program of La Révolution Sociale. Here is an excerpt:
“Let the revolutionary party organize itself solidly, on its own ground, with its own weapons, borrowing nothing from its enemies — not their institutions, their sophistries, nor their methods. Let it prepare, when the ‘heroic times’ return, to lay siege to the State, to the fortress that defends and protects the avenues of privilege, and leave not one stone upon another!” FROM EACH ACCORDING TO THEIR ABILITIES, TO EACH ACCORDING TO THEIR NEEDS.
We believe, in fact, that society, being neither an innate nor an immanent entity, but a human invention designed to combat natural inevitabilities, must above all benefit the weak and surround them with special care to compensate for their inferiority. Consequently, the goal we must set for our aspirations is the creation of a social order in which the individual, as long as they give all they can in terms of dedication and work, receives all they need. Let the table be set for everyone, let each person have the right and the means to sit at the social banquet, and eat whatever they choose and as much as they desire, without their portion being measured by what they can pay!
(First issue of La Révolution Sociale.)
Some people will be quite surprised not to find any of the nonsense attributed to me. Perhaps there is other nonsense, but certainly not what they imagine.
I am encroaching on events for this chapter because this is the moment to publish these excerpts. However frank Mr. Andrieux’s confession may be, I owe the following citations:
In the meantime, if we were to create reactionary newspapers to criticize ourselves, we would be regarded as worthy of Charenton.
The wind blew like thunder, and I thought of the charge rumbling underground when Mr. Serraux offered me the opportunity to collaborate on La Révolution Sociale. I might have been capable of proposing it myself; I also admit that I had great confidence in Serraux, and it has not been long since I became certain of the trap.
Mr. Andrieux could have lied and accused my friends and me. He did not; it is less opportunistic than many others of the same party would have been, and I must acknowledge that.
Here are two articles published in La Révolution Sociale.
THE ILLEGAL CANDIDATURE
Citizens,
You ask Paule Mink and me what we think of the “dead candidacies.”
Here is my response, while awaiting that of Citizen Mink, which, I believe, will not differ much from mine.
The dead candidacies are both a banner and a demand.
They are the pure idea of the social revolution, soaring without individuality—
—an idea that cannot be struck down or destroyed—
—an idea invincible and relentless, like death itself.
The illegal candidature is just.
The dead candidature is as grand as the Revolution itself.
As for the candidacies of women, they are also a demand—
the demand against the eternal enslavement of the mother,
who, after all, must raise men and makes them what they are;
but what does it matter? Are we not part of the shared bondage?
We fight the common enemy.
As for me, I hardly concern myself with specific questions,
being, as I repeat, with all the groups that attack,
whether with the pickaxe, the mine, or fire,
the cursed edifice of the old society!
Hail to the awakening of the people
and to those who, by falling, have opened the doors of the future so wide
that the entire Revolution can pass through!
LOUISE MICHEL
Here is a second article:
Seeing my name among those being proposed for candidacies, I feel obligated to respond.
I cannot oppose the candidacies of women as an affirmation of the equality of men and women. But given the gravity of the circumstances, I must repeat to you that women must not separate their cause from that of humanity but must be active members of the great revolutionary army.
We are fighters, not candidates.
Bold and relentless fighters: that is all!
The candidacies of women have been proposed, and that is sufficient for the principle. Since they would not succeed—and even if they did, they would change nothing in the situation—I must therefore, for my part, ask our friends to withdraw my name.
We do not want a few isolated cries demanding justice, which will never be granted without force. We want the entire people, and all peoples, to rise up for the liberation of all the enslaved, whether they are called the proletarian or the woman—it does not matter.
Thus, let those who still hope for results through voting put forward the names of workers. Let those whose hearts are filled with immense disgust for this low-empire government that calls itself a republic, instead of abstaining if they so choose, acclaim the sacred principle of the social revolution by evoking the names of their murdered representatives from 1871. This is still a way of waking up—of rising from the sinister slumber in which we will not allow the people to remain, for during such slumbers empires are forged, and opportunism grows.
If it is convenient for certain people that the daughter of the people stands in the street, under the rain and in shame, to safeguard the daughter of the rich; if they are pleased to lead men in droves to the slaughterhouse and women to the brothel; we, who no longer want the buying and selling of human flesh, whether for the mouths of cannons or for parasitic appetites, proclaim loudly: — No more personal questions, not even questions of sex! No more selfishness, no more fear! Forward, the brave ones! And let those who know where we are headed leave us to it.
LOUISE MICHEL
Here is another excerpt from my series of articles on strikes.
THE CONSCRIPTS’ STRIKE
Ah! There is no social question!
That’s why little children are born in the very bed where their father dies, and why Public Assistance provides a miserable one franc per person for such horror.
That’s why the posting of a speech costs the people thirty-four thousand francs.
Because it’s the people who pay, always the people.
But they must be content because they are told they are “sovereign”—a convenient word to mask the word for tomorrow, no less convenient: the vile multitude…
For the law of majorities is applied affirmatively when it comes to the human herd electing Badinguet III or Opportunist I, but negatively when it comes to the right that the so-called “sovereign” multitude might claim—to resolve the social question differently than by selling the daughters of the people to brothels; slaughtering their sons on battlefields for the “good pleasures” of opportunists; or letting old workers die of hunger, like the old horses of Montfaucon.
Ah! There is no social question!
But it could be resolved in a single act of will by this people, who are chained by being made to believe they are free!
A purely passive act that would face no repression, for one can shoot an army, massacre a city, but no one dares to attack an entire nation.
If a whole heroic people were to assert their full authority by closing the registers of the morality police—which cause certain young women and girls take their own lives—and they are right to do so—rather than be listed there…
If an entire people refused to offer their sons for reckless ventures leading to future Sedans;
If this conscripts’ strike silenced the potentates who claim to fatten the fertile soil with blood for their own benefit alone, forcing kings or dictators to take up the Eagle of Boulogne, the helmet of Mambrino, or the sword of Marlborough, and go to war themselves, the questions they hope to exploit for their survival would quickly be resolved. They would not dare to leave behind their comfort and opportunistic enrichment!
Well, yes! Now that the winds blow toward war, even if, in the name of the new law on press freedom, they come to arrest me at my sick mother’s bedside, I, who witnessed the Prussian War with its treacherous generals and noble battalions whose momentum was neutralized by forced marches, etc., will raise this cry that escapes my conscience:
LOUISE MICHEL
CONSCRIPTS’ STRIKE
Allow me to quote another brief item I published in La Révolution Sociale. It was simply titled: To M. Andrieux.
I do not know who (perhaps Andrieux himself) replaced it with the title:
SILENCE TO THE INFAMOUS!
The renegade Andrieux, by naming me in L’Arbresle, provoked a response. The malefactor made some precious confessions: he admitted that he had brought my companions and me back to have us under his executioner’s claw, to dishonor us with shameful convictions and make us die a slow death.
Nouméa was too far for Andrieux to fully satisfy his hatred against the remnants of the Commune; in Lyon, he had them arrested with his own hand or assassinated by his soldiers. Now, he requires more fodder for his repression, and this is why he voted for amnesty. He says it openly and boasts about it.
It is not a revocation but justice that is needed for someone who serves as the executor of high deeds and as the henchman of every tyranny. Does anyone think the French will tolerate what even the Russian peasants proudly reject? No! We, too, know how to die, but we do not know how to live under the whip.
There are insults that so-called politicians do not feel; otherwise, the supplier of gallows would have received as many slaps as there are hands in the municipal council. Since he is untouchable to those in power, it falls to the independent to deliver justice themselves!
LOUISE MICHEL
I am missing the last issues of La Révolution Sociale; I would have liked the last two or three articles, especially the final one, which I wrote intending to provoke the closure of the newspaper through a conviction—a plan I had shared with Mr. Serraux. (I understand why it wasn’t pursued—who could have suspected that the police prefect was involved?)
There is enough here, however, to clarify that:
1. I kept myself outside of personal attacks;
2. The affair of the Foutriquet statue left me utterly indifferent, as I even suggested attributing the act to a child to avoid blaming a man for the blunder.
At that age, even if the hand is unsteady, indignation is swift. And then, what does it all matter? If they deceive us, part of their traps is broken by our very frankness, and the Revolution remains unsullied!
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 6
While wrapping up several matters before moving forward, I want to speak one last time, once and for all, about courage in prisons and put an end to the idea of heroism! There is no heroism, only duty and revolutionary passion, which should no more be considered a virtue than love or fanaticism.
As for me, my time in prison is as manageable as it would be for any other schoolteacher.
Solitude is restful, especially when one has spent much of life always needing an hour of silence without ever finding it—except at night. This is the case for many schoolteachers. And even at night, in such circumstances, one hurries to think, to feel alive, to read, to write, to be, for a brief moment, a free being.
At the last lesson, one felt like an overworked beast, yet still a proud beast, lifting its head to push through to the end of the hour without faltering.
Now, silence surrounds you, all fatigue has vanished, and you live, you think, you are free. (These few hours of rest, painstakingly earned over long years, I found in prison—that’s all.)
It is the best that could happen to me during these first months, when my mother—whose memory never left me during her two years of slow agony—has just died, precisely at the moment when both adversaries and friends would find it fitting to release me, as if her death were some sort of merit.
Corpses were paid for under Bonaparte and many others; it is time for that to end. The adversaries felt it.
Perhaps, in this beautiful country of France, the trend of attributing a pathological condition to any woman with a somewhat strong character has become fully established. One might wish that such “pathological conditions” would manifest in great numbers among the dandy weaklings and other categories of the so-called stronger sex.
Let us move on. I am grateful to the government for sensing how odious the insult they sought to inflict on me truly was.
I do not have a copy of the letter written to refuse that insult. However, here are three lines summarizing it, which I addressed to Lissagaray, knowing he had protested.
It seems other friends did so as well; not reading the newspapers, I was unaware of this, and I thank them here. Here is the letter:
May 4, 1885
Citizen Lissagaray,
Thank you. It seems you understood that I could not, without dishonor, accept a pardon to which I have no more right than anyone else.
All or nothing.
I do not want the corpse of my mother to be the price of my release. My thanks also to the friends who warned me in time.
I fully accept the responsibility of this refusal, and if my friends reflect, they will realize that, unable to do anything more for me, at least no further insult should be added.
The adversaries understood this.
I shake your hand.
LOUISE MICHEL
If they had not listened to me, I would have left immediately for Russia or Germany. There, they kill revolutionaries, but they do not disgrace them.
Leave me in peace.
L.M.
All or nothing. I hope this sentiment will always be understood, and that the insult, which they were kind enough to withhold from me and which I did not deserve, will never be repeated.
A man in prison has only to contend with his situation, as it is imposed by his adversaries. A woman in prison faces not only the same situation but also the added complications of interventions from friends, who attribute to her every weakness, every foolishness, every madness! Comrades, men delight in overwhelming us and accept, in our name, abominable cowardices that no honest heart could survive. Such is the custom!
You were so kind to my poor mother and me, my dear friends, but you must grow accustomed to not considering it madness if my mother’s death, looming before me, startled me. Remember that once the poor woman no longer suffered, I prepared her burial myself, without shedding a tear. Upon returning to Saint-Lazare, I resumed work the very day after her death, and no one ever saw me weep or even pause in observing everything with calm.
What more do they want?
I will live for the struggle, but I refuse to live in shame or under shame.
After this necessary digression, I resume my account and arrive at the voyage to New Caledonia, which I have scarcely mentioned.
I had never traveled farther than from Chaumont to Paris. The sea was for me the most beautiful of spectacles, even though engravings, accounts, and especially my imagination had made me jaded about the Ocean since childhood.
One dreams of the Ocean as it truly is, but when it becomes reality, one is enchanted, mesmerized by its immensity.
How long I had loved the sea! I had always loved it.
For my first toys, my grandfather made me boats, beautiful ships whose sails could be furled with thick thread cables.
I have fragments of an early account of my life where I recounted it:
For my first toys, he made me boats,
Beautiful decked ships with shrouds and tops,
And in the round stone basin, we set them afloat,
Amid brown-hued monstrous toads
That sometimes leaped boldly on their decks.
It was near the old elm and the beehives.
Roses from Provins, with crimson petals,
Spread their branches over the blond resedas.
Oh! How many white sails I saw as a child,
Drifting on the waves in my dreams at night.
I always saw one, alone under the stars,
It seemed a great white bird on the black horizon.
As I painted it in its swift glory,
And the proud forest of its tall masts,
My grandfather said to me: “We’ll make your ship,
From oak heartwood, and it will be magnificent.
For it is a frigate…”
But we never made the frigate of my dreams from oak heartwood,
to set it afloat in the round stone basin, near the red roses, with bees flying around its masts. We never built it!
And it was upon the great waves, after the defeat, that I recognized the Virginie.
Let whoever wishes explain this dream of my childhood. As for me, when I saw in reality the ship of my dream, I had seen too much in life to be moved by it!
I mentioned at the beginning certain circumstances that evoke Edgar Poe, Baudelaire, and the storytellers of strange tales; I will say little of them— perhaps even the story of the Virginie, sailing full-sail, as I saw it in my dream, will be the only page of this kind.
I say “perhaps” because often, while writing, one becomes carried away and wanders through memories… without even thinking about the act of writing. It is especially in those moments that the ends of phrases remain unspoken, and one is always far, very far, from the line one is tracing.
Verses, once again, will paint our journey (my first journey) better than anything else. One must admit that when the State takes charge of the expenses, it spares no effort! A long voyage on a warship—such a boon I could never have dared to dream.
It is true that it came at a high cost: our people, by the thousands, fallen in the slaughter; and our mothers, who no longer believed they would see us again.
IN THE POLAR SEAS
Aboard the Virginie
The snow falls, the waves roll,
The air is frozen, the sky is black;
The ship creaks under the swell,
And morning merges with evening.
Forming a heavy circle,
The sailors dance and sing;
Like an organ with a thundering voice,
The wind blows into the sails.
Afraid of succumbing to the cold,
They sing to the icy pole
A tune from the moors of Brittany,
An old bardic song of bygone days.
And the sound of the wind in the sails,
That tune so simple and so old,
The snow, the starless sky,
Fill their eyes with tears.
Is this tune a magical song,
To move the heart so deeply?
No, it’s a breath of Armorica,
Filled with blooming broom.
And it is the wind of the polar seas,
Sounding in its brass trumpets,
The new popular bardic songs
Of the legends of tomorrow.
Oh sea! Calm as a sheet of oil, peacefully reflecting the shadows of the tall yards.
Oh tumultuous sea of the Cape! With its mountains of waves, all white with foam, all black with depths, with the rising sun over the waters, and millions of phosphorescent stars dotting the sea at night; the sound of the wind creating an organ in the sails; how magnificent it all was!
And the “sheep of the Cape,” the poor albatrosses that landed on the ship, or were caught with hooks—poor albatrosses, hung by their beaks until death, so that not a drop of blood would stain the whiteness of their feathers. How sadly they lifted their heads for as long as they could, arching their swan-like necks to prolong their miserable agony by just one moment, opening their large, black-lashed eyes with an expression of horror.
Fly, birds, the sea is beautiful.
The waves roar, the wind howls;
Freely you may beat your wings
Around the fleeing ship.
Sail on the foaming sea,
It looks like a wandering fleet,
White under the shining sun!
Fly joyously near the ship;
Soon you will be captives there.
Must not everything come to an end,
Men, in your furtive pleasures,
For a whiter fur,
You put the beast to torture.
Poor birds, be fearful.
That death is not just for the albatrosses; for some, bloodstains would also be unwelcome.
Many letters and many verses were exchanged aboard the Virginie through the bars of the cages; for the prohibition against correspondence was never observed. The other regulations, however, were respected, since we were treated with consideration.
I kept many of my correspondences until my return; they have since sunk along with many other things.
I regretted losing them; there were simple and profound letters, verses from many deportees, and a very charming dedication that a comrade, a zealous Protestant, had written on the first page of a pious book. I threw the book overboard but kept the dedication; it carried a scent of myrrh and cinnamon.
Some letters, many even, were filled with memories of the absent. We left them less free, under the tide of triumphant reaction, than we would be in the Caledonian deserts.
The only fragments that remain are a few stanzas of mine and a piece of verse by Rochefort, which reads as follows:
TO MY NEIGHBOUR ASTERN TO STARBOARD
I said to Louise Michel:
We pass through rain and sun
Under the Cape of Good Hope.
We will soon be far away,
And yet I do not feel
That we have left France!
Before entering the bitter abyss,
Were we any less seasick?
Same effects under different causes.
When my heart leaps with every beat,
I hear the country respond:
“And am I, then, on a bed of roses?”
Not far from the pole where we pass,
We brush against ice floes,
Propelled by the speed we’ve gained.
I then think of our conquerors:
Do we not know their hearts
Are harder than the pack ice?
The seal we glimpsed this morning
Reminded me, from afar,
Of bald Rouher with greasy hands.
And the sharks we caught
Seemed like severed limbs
From the commission of pardons.
On the day of great heat,
When we hoisted the colors
From the mizzen to the mainmast,
I thought—should I apologize?—
That I saw Versailles decorated
For Bazaine’s acquittal!
We will see, on other shores,
The weak devoured by the strong,
Just as our laws preach.
The law is: woe to the vanquished!
I was already convinced of this
Before going to the antipodes.
We, reckless beings,
Have braved many other bites,
For those whose hands are stained with blood…
In the massacres of Karnak,
They could teach the oldest Kanak
Lessons in cannibalism!
Could one ever compare,
The Osage who feasts
On a corpse found in the harbors,
To those friends of Caesar’s fire,
Who, for the slightest banquet,
Offered thirty thousand corpses?
The Osage, it must be admitted,
Often satisfies his hunger
With his prisoner’s flesh,
But before cooking him to perfection,
He fattens him up well,
To the honor of his guests.
I know a Pantagruel,
No less greedy and more cruel.
Children, the elderly, women,
Whom you stalk for your dinner—
Before murdering them,
O Mac-Mahon, you starve them!
Since the ship of State
Sails from crime to atrocity,
On a sea of infamy;
Since it claims to be moral order,
Let us salute the Southern Ocean
And remain on the Virginie!
It is too hot or too cold there,
I do not claim it to be
Precisely hospitable.
When walking in sleet,
Near a soldier whose rifle
Threatens both front and rear.
This mast, tilted by a squall,
Can be uprooted by the wind,
The waves can flood the hold;
But those faded, pallid dukes,
Do you think they have no sway
On their throne of chrysocolla?
Whether we are dreamers or mad,
We go straight ahead,
While, and this is some comfort,
Watching them flounder,
One cannot doubt
That they have broken their compass.
We may sink along the way,
But I foresee that before tomorrow,
Without claiming to be an oracle,
Their fate will be much the same.
Whoever defies the current
Is swept away by the collapse.
December 1873, aboard the Virginie
HENRI ROCHEFORT
I see it all again; I smell the acrid scent of the waves; I hear the wind’s organ in the sails, the commotion and the sounds of manoeuvers, the whistle when the sailors haul up the anchor, pause, and hold firm; the rough rolling of the cable, the sounds of brass, the sailors’ songs as they pull at the capstan.
The harmony becomes a force without which it would be impossible for them to cast or raise the anchor.
The ship turning on itself, I see again the ports of call, the Canaries, Santa Catarina, and so on.
They unfurl the topsails, brace them, hoist them; the sailors, perched on the yards, unwind the reefing ribbons; the swollen canvas gives them escape, the sails catch the wind, and the land disappears.
I quote another poem, written under the impression of the moment, as it will convey it better.
ABOARD THE VIRGINIE
September 13, 1873
Behold, from the waves to the stars,
Emerging those wandering white forms!
Fleets are in full sail
In the immense depths:
In the heavens, fleets of worlds;
On the waves, the golden facets
Of phosphorescent glimmers.
And the drifting sparks,
And the worlds lost in the distance,
Gaze like pupils of eyes.
Everywhere, faint songs resonate,
Speaking of new dawns:
The Gallic rooster flaps its wings.
Au gui l’an neuf, Brennus! Brennus!
The sight of these abysses intoxicates,
Higher, oh waves! Stronger, oh winds!
Life becomes too narrow to live,
For dreams here are so vast!
Ah, would it not be better
Amid the crash of the elements,
To return one’s being to the source,
To merge with the burning currents?
Swell the sails, oh storms!
Higher, oh waves! Stronger, oh winds!
Let the lightning flash above our heads.
Ship, onward, onward!
Why these monotonous breezes?
Unfurl your wings, hurricanes!
We are heading for the cyclones;
Ship, onward, onward!
There may be a lot of verses in my Memoirs, but poetry is the form that best conveys certain impressions. And where else does one have the right to be oneself and express what one feels, if not in one’s Memoirs?
I have two or three pages left from my logbook; in them, I see that we departed from Auberive on Tuesday, August 24, 1873, between six and seven in the morning.
I had seen my mother the day before and noticed for the first time that her hair was turning white.
Poor mother!
As we passed through Langres, five or six workers came out of their workshop and removed their caps; they were ironworkers, cutlers. Their arms, bare up to the elbows, were black.
One of them, whose hair was white, raised his hammer and shouted a cry, half of which was drowned out by the rumble of the carriage. It was: “Long live the Commune!”
Something like a promise to remain worthy of that salute passed through my heart.
In the evening, we arrived in Paris in the prison carriage that went from the Gare de l’Est to the Gare d’Orléans. I guessed at the small shop on Rue Saint-Honoré where, after my departure, my mother would take refuge with a relative.
On Wednesday, around four in the afternoon, we arrived at the detention center in La Rochelle.
The Comète, where we were treated as the vanquished and not as criminals, transported us from La Rochelle to Rochefort, where we boarded the Virginie.
Friendly boats had accompanied the Comète all day; we responded to their salutes from a distance.
I wished, as I left, to wave in a final farewell the red scarf I had kept, but it was in the luggage, and I had only my black veil.
That scarf, hidden from every search—the red scarf of the Commune—was divided, over there, into two pieces one night when two Kanaks, before returning to join their people in rebellion against the whites, wanted to bid me farewell.
The sea was rough; did they even make it to the other shore? Or were those unfortunate souls, swimming away, killed? I do not know which of these two deaths took them.
They were brave, the kind beloved by both blacks and whites—the Valkinis.
Returning to my logbook: until Monday, we followed the coast of France, and then came the open sea. At first, two or three ships appeared on the horizon, then just one, and eventually, nothing.
Around the 14th, the last great seabirds disappeared; two followed us for a while.
On the 16th, the sea was rough, the wind blew in a storm, and the sun cast a thousand facets across the waves. Two rivers of diamonds seemed to flow along the sides of the ship.
It was truly my frigate, alone under the heavens!
On August 19, a black ship, resembling the Néglefare, the spectral ship of the north, appeared intermittently on the horizon. At times it seemed to be sailing at full speed, at others slowing down. It maneuvered as if it were watching us. Could it be liberators?
For two days, it followed us intermittently. On the evening of the second day, we conducted a training exercise. Two blank cannon shots were fired during the maneuver.
The strange ship vanished into the night, still watching for a while, its white sails resembling stars in the depths of the shadow.
It never returned.
On August 22, sea swallows perched on the yards. We came into view of Palma, in the Canary Islands.
Could this be the remnants of Atlantis? Why not? The turbulent land still seems to tremble.
Mountains, and more mountains, piled up and mingling with the clouds.
On the 24th, we raised anchor at 9 a.m. Following the coastline, we saw countless and endless peaks, and in the deep gorges, forests or plantations of dark green streaked with lighter shades of green.
There were bays open to the northwest wind; in the distance, the peak of Tenerife; further still, a bluish summit lost in the sky. Was it the island of Alegranza and Mount Caldera? No, it must have been cloud summits.
From the harbor of Palma, we saw two forts, Euz and Santa Catarina; wild rocks and ruins, which we were told were the remains of a customs post.
The white houses of Palma seemed to rise from the water; to the north, on a hill, stood the citadel called Plate-Forme.
The locals, arriving in boats loaded with enormous grapes, introduced us to the local currency: gold ounces or quadruples (none of us needed to worry about that), worth 84.80 francs. As for the quarters, eighths, and sixteenths of a piastre; the small coins and half-coins—they were somewhat understandable, ranging from 1 franc to 53 centimes. There was also the real—a 5-franc piece was worth 9—and others.
The most fascinating part was the appearance of the locals: two of them were magnificent. Forgive me, science, but based on a summary of many readings, I believe I am not mistaken; they are Guanches, whose ancestors lived on Atlantis.
From the Canaries to Santa Catarina, the sea became more deserted; from Santa Catarina to Nouméa, it grew increasingly so, until it was utterly desolate.
Through the small pass—one of the breaches in the double coral reef encircling New Caledonia—we entered Nouméa.
Here, as in Rome, there are seven small bluish hills beneath an intensely blue sky. Further away is Mont d’Or, with its red crevices of gold-bearing soil, and all around, peaks.
I believe I am more than half wild, for these arid peaks, these gaping, torn gorges left by a cataclysm, these cones whose flames once burst forth—or will burst forth again—this entire wilderness pleases me.
One mountain was split in two, forming a V. If the two branches were to meet again, they would enclose the rocks that hang half-uprooted.
As always, there are attempts to treat women differently. They want to send us to Bourrail, under the pretext that the conditions there are better, but for that very reason, we vigorously protest.
If our comrades are more unfortunate on Ducos Peninsula, we want to be there with them.
Finally, on the word of the commander of the Virginie, we disembarked at the peninsula, transported by the ship’s launch. The commander understood and made others understand that we were in the right.
The men who had come with us, having already disembarked a few days earlier, awaited us on the shore with the other comrades.
For more than eight days, we were celebrated from hut to hut. The first meal was at the home of Père Malézieux, that old June veteran whose tunic had been so riddled with bullets on January 22, and who, since then, had escaped—he scarcely knew how, nor did we—from the struggle and the massacre. I believe the less one values their life, the longer it stays with them; it’s the same with many other things.
Lacour prepared the roast in a pit, in the Kanak style.
Lacour, the same man who, at Neuilly, near the Perronnet barricade, one night heard someone playing the organ in the Protestant church as a response to the Versailles artillery—sometimes as a challenge, sometimes mimicking as closely as possible the infernal noise of the artillery. He entered with five or six National Guardsmen, threatening the person who was drawing shells to the barricade in this way.
That person was me! I had been ordered to rest. The oratory was near the barricade, the organ was still in good condition, with only a few notes damaged, and I had never felt more inspired. Everyone rests in their own way.
At Clermont, with the sound of the wind creating an organ for me, I jotted down from memory a few measures of that “dance of the bombs.”
At a meal held at Rochefort’s in our honor, Daoumi, a Kanak from Sifou, came dressed in European clothing—a high-top hat (which detracted from his proud, wild appearance) and leather gloves on his broad hands—all this on the pernicious advice of Balzenq.
Balzenq, a kind of alchemist who dabbled in niaouli oil extraction and tinkering in his workshop full of crucibles, claimed to be a tinsmith simply because he was born in Auvergne.
Former editor of Blanqui’s newspaper.
Daoumi, this lion, was so hindered by his imprisoned limbs that he could neither assist Olivier Pain in preparing the roast nor, like everyone else, lend a hand (with anything). That’s why I managed to persuade him to sing a war song while I fed leaves to the goat tied to the castor plant.
This song, sung by Daoumi with that gentle Kanak voice, was translated for me with remarkable confidence. It seemed beautiful to me. Here are the words:
WAR SONG
Very beautiful, very good
Ka kop,
Red sky!
Mea moa,
Red axe,
Mea ghi,
Red fire,
Mea iep,
Red blood,
Mea rouia,
Farewell, adieu,
Anda dio poura,
Men—brave—Mateh malch kachmas!
This single stanza is all I retained. It is first repeated three times, like a refrain, and within it, there are repetitions. The melody changes with each verse but repeats identically for the refrain. Many words suggest the influence of ancient peoples in New Caledonia. Anda dio does not match the style of the rest.
Daoumi himself, though the son of a théama of Lifou, was almost European from living so much among the whites. He could read perfectly, and he wrote no worse than many others. Even under that ridiculous stovepipe hat he naively wore, he bore a certain resemblance to Othello.
It is said that a white woman loved him and nearly died of grief due to her parents’ refusal.
Since that first meeting with Daoumi, I saw him many more times. He worked at the Ducos Peninsula canteen to adapt to European life. He shared tribal legends with me, gave me vocabularies, and I tried in return to teach him what I believed was most essential for him to know.
He introduced me to his brother, a magnificent savage with sparkling teeth and large, phosphorescent eyes, dressed entirely in Kanak style—that is, not at all—and struggling to speak our harsher language compared to their softer dialects.
When my five years on the peninsula were over, and I could move to Nouméa like others with a trade to support themselves, it wasn’t the young white woman who had died—it was Daoumi.
His brother took up the interrupted project. It is he who will return to his tribe with a certain body of knowledge to benefit his people.
The magnificent savage, now dressed as a strange European, could read and came to write at my place. We spoke of Daoumi, the long shadowy past of the tribes, and the brief future awaiting the ignorant and unarmed in the face of our greed and countless means of destruction.
Before this noble and firm intelligence, before this brave and kind heart, I asked myself: Which is the superior being? The one who assimilates knowledge foreign to his race despite countless obstacles, or the one who, well-armed, annihilates those who are not?
If the superiority of the white race is proven by the disappearance of others before it, how much more superior would legions of tigers, elephants, or lions seem if they suddenly swept across Europe and crushed us beneath their paws! Primitive monsters, in such a triumph of destruction, would surely be our masters!
Minds are not cultivated equally; there are fertile lands left fallow and old crops thoroughly exhausted. The same is true of human races.
Between those who know nothing and those who know poorly—distorted for thousands of generations by infallibilities that were mistaken—the difference is not as great as we think. The same gust of true science will sweep through all of it.
In the early days of our residence on the peninsula, few ships had yet transported Commune prisoners. They continued to arrive until the very end.
The last convictions were not far from the amnesty, to which the people compelled the government.
Since our arrival, each mail delivery brought illusions to those who were homesick, illusions that lulled them toward the cemetery. Many might have overcome their burning desire to return had the premature hope not been followed by disillusionment.
No matter how much they were told that deportation typically lasted about ten years, or that too much of our blood had been shed for us to be allowed back, they preferred the false promises that ultimately killed them over the voice of reason.
Often, wearing white linen blouses, they would walk along the mountain paths with a wild cotton flower tucked into their buttonhole, for fathers of families, those with small children, were the first to depart for the release of death.
The town of Numbo was gradually being built, with each new arrival adding their own mud hut covered with bush grass. Numbo, situated in the valley, formed a “C” shape, with the eastern tip hosting the prison, post office, and canteen; the western tip was a forested area on hills covered with marine plants. Along the bay, from east to west, stood the huts. Bauër’s hut formed a charming pavilion from afar, with a small garden in front containing euphorbia plants, sometimes cultivated.
Above it was the theater—a real theater with directors, actors, stagehands, scenery, and a management committee. This theater was a masterpiece, considering the conditions. They performed everything: dramas, vaudevilles, operettas. Fragments of the opera Robert the Devil were sung, though the full score was unavailable.
It must be admitted that the young leading ladies had deep voices, their hands in their skirt pockets as if searching for a cigar. Even my war council dress, which was quite long, left their ankles exposed, as they were tall young men.
Eventually, they lengthened their skirts, and by the end, nothing was missing from the costumes. We went to the theater every Sunday. Wolowski trained the chorus, and when I left the peninsula for Nouméa, they were even talking about forming an orchestra.
For a long time, I had dreamed of creating an orchestra with palm branches, bamboo percussion, conch shells used as horns, and leaves placed over the mouth to produce sounds—essentially a Kanak orchestra with quarter tones. With the help of Daoumi and the Kanaks who brought provisions, I thought I could try. But my plans were thwarted by the slightly classical theater committee, who accused me of savagery.
This happened during the tribal uprising, and among the comrades, I was thought to be more Kanak than the Kanaks themselves. There was a bit of an argument by the sea, and to stir things up further, I mentioned a Kanak play idea I had, as if I intended for it to be performed in black tights. I even added costume details and other provocative suggestions, fueling the debate and secretly making me laugh.
Bauër said to me, “It seems you want to stage a Kanak play?”
I made no effort to deny it—quite the opposite—and that may have been the time the guard came down, thinking there was a riot, only to find Bauër and me discussing Kanak theater!
Despite it all, we remained good friends. To reconcile, after discussing Kanak people and their most intelligent representative we knew—Daoumi—Bauër gave me a study he had just written on Othello, comparing Shakespeare’s Desdemona to Dante’s Francesca da Rimini. I still had that study in my papers two years ago. I recall this phrase that sums it up:
“It is curious to see how the premise of Othello transforms in a culture where the grand dramatic breath is almost entirely absent, yet where comedic genius excels. If we turn to Molière for an analogous situation to that of the Moor, we find it in Sganarelle.”
I believe it was the same year that Caulet de Taillac, gripped by a desperate desire to see his dying mother, weakened and requested to return to France. When he arrived, his mother had already passed, and he soon died himself.
What sad stories! I have mentioned Verdure, who died of grief from not receiving any letters, just days before a packet of mail addressed to him arrived—the postal service was not yet regularized.
I had only seen Verdure once since September 4, when we had picked cuttings from liberty trees together in the Tuileries Garden. My mother kept one for several years, but it perished in the harsh winter just before our return.
Poor Verdure! During the struggle, there was little time to see friends. I would have loved to meet him again and help him rather than resume teaching his students.
Comrades cultivated flowers on the graves. Henry Lucien made a terracotta statue for the grave of Eugénie Tiffaut, a beautiful girl with dark blue eyes who died at sixteen. The statue remained intact through cyclones until our departure.
Passedouet had wreaths sent from France. On the grave of a little child, Théophile Place, an eucalyptus tree grew.
A suicide, Muriot, rests beneath a niaouli tree whose twisted, white branches resemble the tendrils of a specter. At the lower end of the cemetery, mangroves intertwine, sometimes advancing against the ocean, sometimes reclaimed by the waves. Above it all is a pink marble rock where I longed for the names to be engraved. Perhaps one day I will do it myself, leaving the rock steep and half-covered with bush.
When we lived in Numbo, in the barracks below the hospice, I half-demolished an uninhabited one to build a greenhouse. The guards were horrified by my audacity—daring to touch State property! Even the deportees found me quite bold and wondered what would happen when the governor visited.
What happened was that I showed him, in the most light-exposed corner, some trees I was treating, which I wanted to keep hidden until the experiment succeeded.
They were four papaya trees that I had grafted with sap from other papayas afflicted with yellowing disease.
The governor, La Richerie, understood the experiment and ordered that the greenhouse be left to me.
The four papayas recovered from the yellowing disease, and perhaps they were the only ones that didn’t die that year, especially among those on the peninsula. However, when Mr. Aleyron, of grotesque and brutal memory, sent the women to the Western Forest, I don’t know what became of my trees.
I wanted to successfully treat twenty trees before discussing it, especially since, even in a place where everyone suffered for liberty, prejudice still prevailed. I heard remarks like: “If it were true that vaccination could be applied to all diseases, the medical faculty would have done it! Are you a doctor to involve yourself in such matters?” As if one needed to know whether it was a donkey or an ox that first traveled a good road before using it.
Imagine what my ultra-academic critics would have said had I suggested extending vaccination to plants!
Nonetheless, it is true that attempts have been made to use vaccines against rabies, plague, and cholera in the same way I experimented with them there. Since sap is akin to blood, the principle could indeed extend to plant diseases.
In matters of experimentation, boldness is useful, especially when it is based on the analogy that exists among all living things.
I’ve already mentioned that after Rochefort’s departure, Messrs. Aleyron and Ribourt made the ridiculous decision to reenact The Tower of Nesle around us for a time, with grandiose sets. On clear nights, atop the mountains, one could hear: “Sentinels, stand guard!” The dark shadows of sentries standing beneath the bright moonlight passed over the peaks.
After the ridiculous came the odious: deportees were deprived of bread. A poor man, who didn’t even have full command of his faculties, was shot at like a rabbit for returning a little late to his plot of land.
Some letters I had managed to smuggle—easily done under Aleyron and Ribourt—were returned to me when I was asked to write a history of the deportation, a history that could only be created using all of our documents. Here are two examples:
Ducos Peninsula, June 9, 1875
Dear friends,
Here are the official documents regarding the transfer I mentioned to you.
We only consented to the transfer after our protests were addressed:
1. Regarding the manner in which the order was issued;
2. Regarding the conditions under which we would inhabit the new barracks.
While occupying one part of the peninsula or another is of little concern to us, we could not tolerate the insolence of the first notice. We had to set conditions and only agreed to the change of residence once those conditions were met.
Here is a copy of the first notice, posted on May 19, 1875, in Numbo. Orders from the government were transmitted to us in the form of notices:
DECISION
May 19, 1875
By order of the administration, the following deported women are to leave the Numbo camp on May 20 to take up residence in the accommodation assigned to them in the Western Bay:
• Louise Michel, No. 1
• Marie Schmit, No. 3
• Marie Cailleux, No. 4
• Adèle Desfossés, No. 5
• Nathalie Lemel, No. 2
• Mme. Dupré, No. 6
Here are our protests:
Numbo, May 20, 1875
The deportee Nathalie Duval, née Lemel, does not refuse to reside in the barracks assigned to her by the administration, but she wishes to point out:
1. That she is unable to move her belongings herself;
2. That she cannot obtain or process the wood necessary for cooking her food;
3. That she has built two chicken coops and cultivated a portion of land;
4. That, under the law on deportation, which states: “Deportees may live in groups or as families” and allows them to choose the people with whom they wish to establish relationships, the deportee Nathalie Duval, née Lemel, refuses communal living unless it is under those conditions.
Nathalie DUVAL, née Lemel, No. 2
Second Protest:
Numbo, May 20, 1875
The deportee Louise Michel, No. 1, protests against the measure assigning deported women a residence far from the camp, as if their presence there were a scandal. The same law applies to deported men and women, and no additional, undeserved insult should be imposed.
For my part, I cannot move to this new residence unless the reasons for sending us there—if they are honest—are publicly declared on the notice, along with the conditions in which we will be treated.
The deportee Louise Michel declares that, if those reasons are insulting, she will protest to the end, regardless of the consequences.
LOUISE MICHEL, No. 1
The day after our protests, we were notified to move within the day, something we were quick to refuse, having firmly resolved not to leave Numbo until our just protests were addressed. We declared we were ready to go to prison if necessary, but we would not trouble ourselves to relocate.
We had made it clear that once the insulting notice was corrected and our accommodations arranged so as not to inconvenience one another, we had no reason to prefer one location over the other.
There were comings and goings, and threats from the head warden, who, clearly exasperated, came on horseback in the evening to appear more imposing. The horse pranced about noisily, which, bored by his master’s prolonged stop in front of our huts, carried him back to the military camp faster than he intended.
A few days later, the director of deportation arrived, accompanied by the territorial commander. They promised to address our complaints with a second notice and to divide the barracks in the Western Bay into smaller sections where we could live two or three to a hut, as we preferred, allowing those with similar occupations to group together.
Part of the promises was initially fulfilled, but as long as they weren’t entirely implemented, it was impossible to make us leave Numbo. Since there was no space for us in the prison, they ultimately decided to meet all the conditions.
We are now at the Western Bay. It’s unfortunate for Mme. Lemel, who can barely walk due to her poor health, which is why I cannot fully enjoy the proximity of the forest that I so love.
Such is the account of our transfer, without passion or anger.
LOUISE MICHEL, No. 1
Western Bay, June 9, 1873
I should have placed the first letter that concludes this chapter in chronological order, but I didn’t want to interrupt the narrative of our transfer. The following letter, sent to Sydney, reached the Australian Review.
April 18, 1875, Numbo, New Caledonia
Dear friends,
Through the recent escapes, you must have an approximate understanding of the situation of the deportees, namely the harassment and abuse of authority for which Messrs. Ribourt, Aleyron, and their associates are responsible.
You know that under Admiral Ribourt, the secrecy of letters was violated, as though the few men who survived the massacre of 1871 still frightened their assassins across the ocean.
You know that under Colonel Aleyron, the hero of the Lobau barracks, a guard shot at a deportee at his home; this deportee, unknowingly, had crossed the boundary while collecting firewood. Some time before that, another guard had shot the dog belonging to the deportee Croiset, which was positioned between his master’s legs. Was the target the man or the dog?
So much has happened since then! It seems to me that I will forget much of it, as there is so much… but we will meet again.
You already know that bread was denied to those who, simply following the deportation law, attended roll call but did not line up in two military-style rows. The protest on this matter was strong yet calm, demonstrating that, despite the divisions introduced among us by individuals entirely foreign to our cause—placed among us intentionally—the deportees have not forgotten solidarity.
Since then, food rations (except for bread, salt, and dried vegetables) were denied to forty-five deportees accused of hostility toward labor that exists only in the government’s imagination.
Four women were also deprived of food under false accusations of misconduct and immorality. Deportee Langlois, the husband of one of these women, defended her vigorously, stating that she had given him no reason for discontent. For this, he was sentenced to eighteen months in prison and fined 3,000 francs.
Another deportee, Place (known as Verlet), who also defended his companion, whose conduct was respected by all deportees, was sentenced to six months in prison and fined 500 francs. Worse, his child, born while he was in pretrial detention, died due to the torment endured by its mother, who was nursing the baby. He was not allowed to see his child alive.
Other deportees were similarly punished: Cipriani, known for his dignity and courage, received eighteen months in prison and a 3,000-franc fine; Nourny faced a similar sentence for “insolent letters,” which the authorities undoubtedly deserved.
Recently, Citizen Malézieux, the eldest of the deportees, was sitting outside his hut in the evening with other deportees he worked with when a drunken guard accused him of making noise, struck him, and then imprisoned him.
Among our charming victors, the absurd is mingled with the severe: those who have worked the hardest since their arrival are on the list of those being punished. One deportee was listed simultaneously in two contradictory categories, as evidenced by Nouméa’s Journal Officiel: on one list as being punished for refusing to work, and on another as being rewarded for his labor.
I will skip over an incident at evening roll call, a few days before M. de Pritzbuer’s arrival, when a guard known for his insolence threatened deportees with a revolver in hand. The deepest contempt was the only response to this provocation, as it has been to many others since. Messrs. Aleyron and Ribourt sought to justify themselves.
It is likely that further punishment lists will follow the first, and since there is no real work available—communications having been cut off for too long to allow anything to be attempted—and because many deportees’ trades require initial resources they cannot obtain, you can imagine the situation.
In any case, these actions have fully exposed the depths of the victors’ hatred, and it is important to know this—not to imitate them, for we are neither butchers nor jailers, but to reveal and document the misdeeds of the “party of order” so that its first defeat will be definitive.
Farewell, and perhaps see you soon, if the situation demands that those of us who do not value our lives risk them to go and tell of the crimes committed by our lords and masters over there.
LOUISE MICHEL, No. 1
It is easy to understand, after these events, why, when asked to give testimony upon my return, I replied as follows:
CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES
Commission No. 10
To the President of the Commission of Inquiry on the Disciplinary Regime in New Caledonia.
Paris, February 2, 1881
Mr. President,
I thank you for the honor of inviting me to testify regarding the penitentiary establishments in New Caledonia.
While I fully support the effort to shed light on the actions of those distant tormentors, I will not testify at this time, not while M. de Galliffet, whom I saw order the execution of prisoners, dines at the Palais-Bourbon with the head of state, while I am asked to provide evidence against the bandits Aleyron and Ribourt.
If they deprived deportees of bread; if they provoked them at roll call through guards armed with revolvers; if they shot at a deportee returning to his plot in the evening—these individuals were not sent there to lay us on beds of roses.
When Barthelémy-Saint-Hilaire serves as minister; Maxime du Camp is at the Academy; when acts such as the expulsion of Cipriani, the young Morphy, and so many other infamies occur; when M. de Galliffet is once again poised to extend his sword over Paris, and the same voices that demanded the full rigor of the law against the bandits of La Villette rise to absolve and glorify Aleyron and Ribourt, I wait for the hour of great justice!
Please accept, Mr. President, the assurance of my respect.
LOUISE MICHEL
The conclusion of my letter from April 18, 1875, referred to a plan Mme. Rastoul and I discussed. It involved using a box filled with thread spools or small objects of that nature to send letters from the peninsula to Sydney.
Our letters were hidden between two pieces of paper glued to the bottom of the box.
The plan was for me to leave one night after roll call, travel across the mountain peaks to reach the northern forest, and follow a path that, with three or four reasonably lucky precautions, could lead to Nouméa via the cemetery.
From there, someone notified by Mme. Rastoul would help me board a mail ship.
Once in Sydney, I intended to move the English people with an account of the heroic deeds of Aleyron and Ribourt. I hoped to return with a brig crewed by bold sailors to rescue the others.
If that failed, I planned to return myself.
However, the box never came back. When I passed through Sydney on my return, Mme. Rastoul—now Mme. Henry—informed me that the box and letter were intercepted just as I was expecting the agreed-upon signal to execute the plan.
I never understood why the New Caledonian administration never mentioned it to me.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 7
AN OBLIGATORY DIGRESSION
The note I received, related to a judgment delivered a few days ago (May 1885), obliges me to provide brief explanations about various collaborations and the conditions under which they were undertaken before resuming my narrative. Certain matters cannot wait.
I read in a newspaper, dated May 7, 1885:
THE TWO NADINES
A few years ago, Mr. Grippa, known as De Winter, published a novel titled The Imperial Bastard with publisher Denoc. The novel was co-written with Miss Louise Michel. From this book, a play was adapted, signed solely as “L.-M.,” and performed under the title Nadine at the Bouffes-du-Nord theater. The play only had three performances, and Nadine would likely have fallen into complete obscurity if not for a case brought before the 1st chamber of the civil court yesterday, which momentarily revived its memory.
Mme. Bertre, known in literature as Marie de Besneray, published a novel titled Nadine in 1884 with publisher Plon. This book, a kind of Russian idyll, had nothing in common with the other Nadine, which was merely an apology for nihilism and the Commune.
However, Mr. Grippa claimed that Mme. Bertre’s work was a counterfeit or, at the very least, unfair competition against the play by Mme. Louise Michel. He filed a claim for damages to be assessed, as well as for the publication of the judgment in twenty major newspapers, fifteen periodicals, and fifty foreign newspapers.
JUDGMENT:
“*Maitre Lesenne pleaded for Mme. Bertre; Maitre Caraby for Mr. Plon.
Maitre Estibal pleaded for Mr. De Winter.
Considering that Grippa De Winter is claiming damages from the defendants for harm caused by the publication of the novel Nadine, whose title was borrowed from the play of the same name authored by Grippa and Louise Michel;
Regarding the form:
Considering that the play Nadine was performed and published solely under the name of Louise Michel, and that Grippa fails to establish his collaboration in this work; therefore, he has neither interest nor standing in this matter, etc., etc.;
For these reasons, the court declares Grippa inadmissible and, in any case, without grounds for his claim, dismisses his case, and orders him to pay the costs for all parties.”
After giving credit to Mr. Grippa de Winter by acknowledging that in The Imperial Bastard and Nadine, he acted honestly by contributing his share of the work and leaving mine as I created it, I must just as frankly declare that, as far as I am concerned, I have never been nor will ever be inclined to engage in lawsuits, whether literary or otherwise. Even less so, if I may say, as I have never had the habit of turning to courts for anything.
I would also add that, despite the deep secrecy maintained by Mr. Grippa about these lawsuits—knowing that I would only participate to declare that I would never dispute ideas with anyone, like dogs fighting over a bone—I have been aware of the various incidents in his little affair.
I keep the documents that establish my collaborations so that I may remain free from any involvement in the profits or losses of lawsuits pursued by my collaborators. They, in turn, are free to act as they please.
I must emphasize that this in no way attacks the talent or integrity of Mr. Grippa or any collaborator who may do the same. It all depends on the degree of importance one attributes to such matters—nothing more.
Since my return from New Caledonia, I have had two other collaborators. Mme. Tynaire (Jean Guetré) is responsible, for the most part, for the first part of Misery. The second part, starting from the chapter Toulon, is entirely mine. I had begun publishing this second part as a serialized story in The Convict of Lille. With a few introductory lines, it could form a complete work.
Mme. Tynaire could also turn the first part into a standalone work by adding a few pages.
Mme. Tynaire could be a friend to me, but not a collaborator, due to the differences in our perspectives, which are clearly highlighted in Misery. Our two parts are easily distinguishable.
She relies on methods to achieve general well-being that I deem ineffective. For my part, I believe that only successive revolutions, breaking the chain of social transformations, can make such well-being possible.
To remain on good terms rather than resorting to disputes, I gave up writing the second part of The Despised, as I would have been forced to impose on the remaining characters changes in personality and adventures that would have been incompatible with how they were initially presented to the reader.
Thus, the novel The Despised does not contain a single line from me.
Since I am already on this tangent, let me conclude this chapter with an inventory of my works.
Who could count the songs scattered to the harsh winds of Haute-Marne in my nest at Vroncourt! The verses clinging to hawthorns or the paths along the roads! The forgotten attempts in my classroom desk!
And later, ask the winds, the prisons, the sea, the cyclones. Do I even know where all of it has gone?
If I wanted to recount everything that has remained in my memory, it would surely tire the reader.
From the verses sent to Victor Hugo in my childhood and youth, some of which I’ve quoted here and there, two or three pieces are included in my volume of poetry. These are the ones kept among the papers organized by Marie Ferré with my mother during my deportation.
The majority of my works, likely the best, because they were full of hatred and indignation, probably ended up in Monsieur Bonaparte’s trash bin.
How many curses I have sent his way!
I have spoken of various poems published in different newspapers several years before the events of 1870–71, including in The Youth Journal, The Union of Poets, Adèle Esquiros’ journal, and The Reason by Adèle Caldelar, among others.
There was an article signed “Louis Michel” in The Musical Progress, discussing an instrument I envisioned: a piano with bows instead of hammers. Such instruments are now made in Germany.
A number of verses were signed “Enjolras,” others “Louis Michel,” and some with my own name. I have no idea what became of all of them.
Throughout my life, I continued the bard’s legend, fragments of which exist everywhere.
Of the many prose manuscripts—The Book of Hermann, The Wisdom of a Fool, Literature in Crochet, The Devilries of Chaumont, etc.—a few fragments remain. Perhaps one day, I will gather them to trace, as in my poetry, the transformations of ideas throughout life.
The Oceanian Legends and Kanak Legends were published in fragments in Nouméa and upon my return.
A multitude of children’s plays disappeared after every prize distribution for many years.
Of Woman Through the Ages, only the first part was published in The Excommunicated by H. Place. The newspaper had announced The Memoirs of Hanna the Nihilist before it ceased publication.
Under this title, I had gathered many episodes of my life, along with Russian episodes.
From the works written in Auberive, a few pages remain from The Book of the Penal Colony; The Conscience and The Book of the Dead are lost.
On my last trip to Lyon, I left the drama The Red Rooster with The Nouvelliste. A novel also appeared in The Convict of Lille.
All articles signed by me in The Social Revolution, The Standard, and other journals remain scattered.
The beginning of The Children’s Encyclopedia, written in New Caledonia, appeared in The Journal of Education by Mlle. Cheminat.
A number of signed articles are dispersed.
As for the unfinished scenarios and novels started here and there, which I never had the time to finish due to events, I don’t even count them.
Among them is The Pillagers, an idea that came to me at the same time as Digeon.
The hero is the child with red hair, the poor abandoned boy, bristly like a lost dog, who, on February 9, took a cake. My comrades, more honest than I, wanted him to throw it away. I admit I took him under my protection so he could eat it—he likely had never tasted one before.
Poor boy! How many more will there be like him until the Revolution comes? If only they had bread to satisfy the appetites of their young, wolf-like human teeth, roaming the woods yet finding nothing! Nothing! I’m wrong—they will find the reformatory, where the harsh treatment prepares future convicts for death or the penal colony.
Well, here I am digressing again, away from the inventory of my works, which I had almost forgotten about.
Let me conclude the chapter by mentioning The Children’s Encyclopedia, to be published by Mme. Keva, and Kanak Legends, currently being published by the same editor.
Kanak Legends are closely tied to my time in New Caledonia, which I will revisit in the next chapter.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 8
Between the Western Forest and the sea lies a strip of volcanic rocks—some standing upright like the menhirs of Carnac, others taking on monstrous shapes. One even appears to be lying down near the menhirs. Other rocks are sprawled out, resembling tombs, and one has the strange form of an enormous rose with a few broken petals.
At high tide, the waves deter those afraid of the water’s chill from venturing to this side.
The signal mast towers above the Western Forest, adorned with swallows. From a distance, it resembles the branches of a massive, beautiful tree.
From this resting place, one can hear the swallows chattering, splitting their beaks with laughter as they recount endless stories.
Twice a year, the forest is blanketed with vines, nearly all bearing white or yellow flowers. The leaves take on every imaginable shape: arrowheads like those of the tarot, spearheads, or vine-shaped foliage.
The golden apple vine blooms like an orange tree. The fuchsia vine covers nearby trees with clusters of white flowers resembling fuchsias, so dense that the leaves are barely visible.
A clover-leafed vine, with small, thick, and transparent leaves that appear to be carved from glass, produces coral-like flowers suspended in baskets on delicate threads.
Across the entire forest, vines float in the air, swaying in the wind or weaving wild arabesques. Some resemble hops or clematis with golden flowers. Others, with hemlock-like leaves, cling to everything with their tender green tendrils.
A vine with fragile, transparent vine-shaped leaves, covered in a bloom similar to that seen on plums, bears fruits resembling miniature, yellow-striped watermelons. The seeds are flat and coated with a vermilion flesh that resembles the animated jelly tossed ashore by cyclones after scouring the seabed. Without form, organs, or structure, this jelly stretches as though forming tubercles to return to the waves.
Another vine produces clusters of red berries resembling dangling earrings. Its small, greenish-white flowers form star-like bouquets.
There are shrubs covered in tiny white carnations. Others bear potato-like flowers with small tubers at their roots, resembling tree-like euphorbias.
Tree peas, with their hairy, resinous pods, produce yellow flowers tinged with red, akin to the hues of wallflowers. The tree bean, small and dark blue, has an unusual blue flower shaded with black. It may be the only flower in the region that is not yellow, white, or red. The latter colour is rare; apart from the flamboyant tree, few trees have crimson blossoms.
White flowers dominate, followed by yellow, with a few reds in third place. The only blue flower I saw is the one I mentioned earlier.
The violet color is represented by tiny wild pansies, which grow abundantly alongside pink morning glories, very small, alongside large, scentless resedas, grow in sandy areas with short grass.
The woods are red with native tomatoes, as large as our cherries, climbing high in the shade or hidden like strawberries in spots where sunlight reaches.
The oleanders bear flower clusters arranged like those of hydrangeas. Some are pale pink, but most are white, with a delicate texture resembling rice paper.
Thousands of shrubs with heliotrope-like flowers and white, hollow, thorn-covered wood grow everywhere.
The berries, shaped and coloured like blackcurrants, have a fragrant taste. Each fruit cluster yields barely half a drop of juice with a very strong Madeira flavor. I believe this fermented juice could be used to make a revitalising liqueur for the sick.
I mentioned earlier the striped seeds of a yellow-fruited vine. An analogous living form exists: a white shell with the same striations, shaped similarly and entirely closed except for the points where a head and tail might emerge.
This strange tortoise-like creature has no legs. Cyclones rip these shells from their shelters beneath the waves and cast them onto the shore.
On a recently emerged hillock, a purple-grape-like algae spreads, alive and waiting for the returning tide, or it adapts to land by attempting to anchor its roots in the soil.
This illustrates how new organs develop or adapt from plants to living beings, depending on their environment.
Do we know how to use the rudimentary organ of freedom, or the embryonic organs of the arts, as effectively as this algae learning to live on land? I don’t think so.
Let the revolutionary cyclone come, and the people will learn a new way of life too.
Once or twice a year, a gray snow envelopes the peninsula, swirling in flakes. Sometimes it piles higher than the ankles: these are the locusts.
When they begin to whirl through the air, you can sometimes repel these “sand bees” in spots by making noise. But they always return, and they are butterflies.
From the forests to the cultivated lands, nothing escapes the voracious locusts: leaves, vegetables, and tender grass. When they invade the old thickets, everything is devoured except the tree trunks.
Perhaps, by digging deep pits to sweep the locusts into and covering them with enough earth to prevent any foul odor, we could create a rich fertilizer.
The second wave of locusts comes from the eggs laid by the first, which hatch in the thickets. The locusts hop around for a long time without wings, like crickets, before taking flight, devouring a second harvest, and moving on to destroy vegetation in another region, where they will lay eggs and die.
There is nothing as striking as the swirling gray snow of locusts. The entire sky takes on a uniform gray hue. Through it, one can see the sun, filtered through the flurry of insects as if through a sieve, and the gray flakes keep falling, creating strangely veiled light and shadows.
Locusts only attack castor plants as a last resort and often not at all. Therefore, it would be possible to rear castor silkworms in New Caledonia, which are nearly as prized in India as mulberry silkworms.
For ten years, I requested silkworm eggs. However, (and I ask forgiveness from the scientists who sent them) because the eggs were first sent to Paris and then redirected across the ocean with the postal letters, they always hatched during these journeys.
Nevertheless, we saw ships arriving that had stopped near the regions where the silkworms originated. After much cursing of the scientists’ practices—who seem incapable of doing anything straightforward—I finally discovered castor plants covered with caterpillars during my last year in New Caledonia. These caterpillars had bare bodies and movements similar to those of the Bombyx moth. Was I mistaken? Do castor silkworms exist in the wild in New Caledonia? Perhaps I will verify this someday.
In the middle of the Western Forest, in a gorge formed by small hills still bearing the briny scent of the sea, there is a massive olive tree. Its branches extend horizontally, like those of a larch tree. No insects ever fly around its bitter, dark leaves. Regardless of the time or season, the shade beneath it has the refreshing coolness of a grotto, offering sudden rejuvenation to both the mind and body.
The fruits of this tree are small, glossy, dark red olives. Is it truly an olive tree? I doubt it.
Above it, enveloping an entire rock with its arches, there once stood a banyan fig tree, which was felled during our final year there.
Never have I seen stranger insects than those dwelling in the shade of that banyan, hiding in the crevices of the crumbling rock.
In this white dust lived large white larvae with reindeer-like horns and black, bud-like protrusions. I saw some completely encased like coffins, others partially open. I couldn’t determine if they were the first stage of the leaf-fly (Phyllis, as naturalists call it). I saw the flower-fly only once, and I don’t believe it has yet been documented.
If alcohol hadn’t been prohibited, I could have preserved some of these insects. Many are curious and possibly unique, especially those found in the cracks of the aforementioned rock or in the piles of dust created by the collapse of ancient niaouli trees. Such opportunities occasionally arise in the Northern Forest.
In the Western Forest, niaoulis are less common. They are most abundant on the slopes of the hills surrounding Numbo, on the Ducos Peninsula. Their branches, illuminated by the bright moonlight, rise like the arms of giants mourning the enslavement of their native land.
On dark nights, the niaouli trees emit a faint phosphorescence.
New Caledonia is a land of precious woods: rosewood, mahogany with yellow or red fruits, ironwood, false ebony trees, dragon trees with blood-red sap, and many others.
Some trees are disappearing, while others have arrived with European settlers. As with every migration, certain species, like small oak tribes, either adapt or perish.
The oaks are disappearing because no acorns were ever introduced to propagate them.
In New Caledonia, every plant and tree has its own insect. The larvae match the color of the wood, while the butterflies mimic the flowers. The caterpillar of the grass has two green stripes; the niaouli caterpillar resembles the branch it devours and transforms into a type of damselfly whose wings and body mimic the wood and leaves of the niaouli.
Each tree hosts a unique type of bug specific to it. These bugs are like precious jewels—rubies, emeralds, adorned with intricate designs. Some are transparent, like crystal. Unlike many other bugs, they don’t emit unpleasant odors—a privilege the Kanaks lack, as they coat themselves with rancid coconut oil to repel mosquitoes.
New Caledonia is a paradise for spiders. They are respected because they supposedly destroy cockroaches. The species kept for this purpose in homes is enormous, black, and hairy-legged—resembling tarantulas.
The silk spider weaves webs in the forests, anchored with thick cables often stretched between trees, relying on the wind to secure the initial threads. Once satisfied with their stability, the spider uses them as a bridge to weave millions of layers into a gauzy pathway or barrier across trails. In these isolated regions, the spider doesn’t count on humans or animals to destroy its work. This silk spider could potentially be utilized industrially.
Another spider, a true monster, exploits the labor or lives of smaller spiders that live within its web and repair it. Does it eat them? Likely, unless their work benefits it more than their flesh. However, this hasn’t been observed directly.
A small, transparent spider looks like a drop of red dew. A large, white spider, resembling a giant hazelnut, is prized by the Kanaks for its delicate flavor, much like the locusts they eat as if they were shrimp.
The silk produced by several insects is strong and smooth. Even some leaves, coated in a natural varnish, could provide silk as fine as that from silkworms. A particular vine produces long, fine silk strands resembling hair. Several types of wild cotton plants, both tree and shrub varieties, could also be cultivated, along with a wild sorghum bearing enormous grains.
In certain untouched forest areas, the timber remains uncut. Precious woods like rosewood or ebony are not yet used to construct the raw brick houses in Numbo or Tendu, which are roofed with bush grass. In these virgin forests, hundreds of flying foxes hang by their feet from trees like large pears, lifting their fox-like heads and curiously observing with their small, black eyes.
Occasionally, rare spectacled birds take flight, brushing the intertwined branches with their wings. Are the flying foxes to blame for the scarcity of birds? It’s said they feed only on wild fruits.
Caledonian fruits—figs that smell like ash, bitter mahogany apples, large mulberries covered in a sugary-looking but tasteless coating, yellow plums with massive round pits—are considered unpalatable by some. I, however, love them, far more than European fruits.
I especially cherished them in the profound silence of the forest, plucking them from bushes between rocks and lava paths while the sea wind roared like thunder. In my pocket, I often carried a cherished letter from my mother or Marie, to be read until the next mail delivery.
Caledonian insects have yet to develop venom. They’ve likely known humans for too short a time for evolution to require it. Water snakes, though equipped with fangs, have them too short to be harmful, and their species (already in decline) will likely disappear before their fangs evolve.
These snakes are large and strikingly beautiful, some ringed in black and white, others striped similarly. Some among us have tamed them. I had one for a long time, keeping it in a water hole I dug in the makeshift greenhouse of my hut. However, I eventually let it go because my old cat, who despised the snake, would provoke it by hissing in its face. I feared the snake might one day suffocate her in its coils. It would follow her with its small, reptilian eyes, displaying a distinctly unfriendly expression.
Among themselves, Caledonian animals use poisons that don’t affect humans. For example, the blue fly, the size of a wasp, drags cockroaches into its lair, stings them, and pierces their eyes—likely injecting them with a sort of curare. Another fly, as large as a hornet, seals other flies in its nest, presumably as food for its larvae. It likely anesthetizes them, similar to how European flies immobilize caterpillars and entomb them in the cells of their nests. A scorpion, harmless to humans, attracts its prey by mesmerizing insects before capturing them.
Amid the pink heather on the high mounds of the Western Forest, enormous boulders lie collapsed like the ruins of fortresses. Fragile-leafed, fragrant-flowered vines drape over these stones, concealing giant millipedes that coil around various insects like snakes. While I haven’t witnessed them eating their prey, I have seen them suffocate their victims. Is it out of hunger? Or mere instinct? I cannot say.
In these same ruins, filled with tall pink heather, a brown spider, hairy like a bear, hides its mating grounds. The female ambushes the male and devours him as soon as he no longer serves her, right where she has bound him in her web. This behavior, it seems, is the opposite of that in humans.
It was only in the third year of our stay at the Ducos Peninsula that we saw white butterflies. Are these insects triennial, or is this a new variety brought about by the new food sources introduced by European plants sown on the peninsula? It remains to be verified.
I often recall those silent shores, the edges of the sea where, suddenly, beneath the mangroves, you hear the water splashing from the combat of crabs. You see nothing but untamed nature and desolate waves.
And the cyclones? Once you’ve experienced them, you become desensitized to the terrifying splendor of nature’s fury. The wind, the waves, and the sea sing the storm’s bardic chants on those days. At times, it feels as if you are being carried along, howling within the tempest’s fearsome choir. You feel swept up on wings thrashing in the black sky over the black waters.
Occasionally, a vast, crimson flash of lightning tears through the darkness or casts a single streak of scarlet, veiled by the black crests of the waves. The thunder, the roaring of the waves, the alarm cannon in the harbor, the sound of torrential rain, the immense gusts of wind—all of it blends into one immense, magnificent sound: the orchestra of wild nature.
The night is deep, but the lightning almost constant; the eye and the ear are captivated.
Our first cyclone occurred at night—those are the most beautiful.
It was on the Ducos Peninsula; the barometer had dropped to its lowest point. The air, utterly still without the slightest breeze, had signaled it since morning. Anxiety gripped the animals; everyone brought their creatures into their huts.
Having secured my goat and my cats inside my hut, an idea struck me that I needed to immediately share with Pérusset (he was a former long-distance sea captain); there was no time to lose.
With some difficulty, I followed the path to Numbo as the evening advanced and the storm began to rage. I managed to reach his hut, one of the first near the Western Forest where we lived.
I knocked.
“Who’s there, in this weather? Bloody hell! Coming, coming!”
Still grumbling, Pérusset opened his door.
“I’m here to fetch you.”
“What for?”
“The ship that’s supposed to protect us won’t hold through the night. It won’t stay in the harbor. With a raft, we could entrust ourselves to the cyclone—it will carry us to the next land, Sydney perhaps—and once there, as a seasoned sailor, you’d be given a brig to return for the others.”
But I flattered him in vain, calling him an old sea wolf, a pirate, a privateer, exhausting my entire vocabulary. Pérusset looked at me in silence.
He was a knowledgeable man, and when science leads one to ponder, it’s not easy to leap into the unknown. Finally, he said gravely:
“First of all, we don’t have the materials for a raft.”
“There are old barrels; we can tie them together.”
“Where would we get those?”
“Anywhere—at the canteen, wherever they’re stored.”
“And even if we managed, do we know where we’d land?”
“Well, it’s a chance worth taking. There’s a thousand-to-one chance of survival.”
“Then we’ll end up with that ‘one chance’ you call none.”
We argued as the storm intensified and the rain began to pour.
“Shall I walk you back?” Pérusset asked, worried about the path I’d have to take.
“No, I don’t need you.”
I slammed his door in his face; I heard his lamp fall. Poor old man! He reopened the door, but I called back from afar:
“I’m in good company.”
I listed five or six names. “We’re leaving at eight.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t lie.”
But it wasn’t true—I was entirely alone, which felt better in my anger. Holding onto the rocks, I returned to the bay of the West.
How beautiful it was! How beautiful! I no longer thought of Pérusset or anything else; I simply watched with all my eyes and all my heart.
The sea, like a black night, raised enormous claws of pure white foam up to the rocks where I stood; the waves rasped as if they had lungs.
When I returned to my hut, I changed clothes, as mine were as heavy as lead, completely soaked.
And then came visitors—all the young men, my students. They were worried something might happen to us and had come to check on me.
“We nearly got knocked over by the wind,” they said.
“I believe it,” I replied.
Ah, if only I had thought of these young men earlier for the raft! If I hadn’t been dazzled by Pérusset’s title of long-distance sea captain—as if one could steer anything in a cyclone! You simply surrender to it!
These young men would have found what we needed, and we would have dared to tempt fate.
Now, it was too late. But what does it matter? What we witness here has its purpose and its beauty. Selfishly, I gazed and gazed, as long as my eyes could, at this night where everything collapsed and groaned.
How silent the morning after! On the jagged shoreline, debris torn from the depths of the sea mingles with wreckage from the peninsula or the Isle of Nou.
On a branch ripped from the forest, a female spectacled bird broods her chicks, miraculously carried through the cyclone without being crushed. I secure the branch as best as I can to a gum tree; it will be better there than on the ground.
How did the chicks not fall from the nest during their harrowing journey? The mother must have held them tightly beneath her wings.
In the human race, there are parents who, in fires or other disasters, flee in panic and forget their children.
The second cyclone, I witnessed during the day in Nouméa. It was beautiful but less grand than the night cyclone at the Ducos Peninsula.
The sight of tin roofs flying off like immense butterflies was strange; the sea roared with rage, and we were drenched in water as if submerged, though it fell from the sky like an ocean. Yet the dramatic effect felt less terrifying—am I already jaded by such things, as I am by so much else?
The compass needle spun wildly, desperately searching for north; from time to time, the great wings of the wind struck harder amid all the immense noise.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 9
ANOTHER PARENTHESIS
These days in May—grim anniversaries of the massacre—the dead come swiftly! Three graves have just opened:
• VICTOR HUGO!
• AMOUROUX!
• COURNET!
All three recall ’71: Amouroux dragged the chains of the penal colony in New Caledonia; Cournet was exiled, and exile was perhaps the harshest fate for the defeated; Victor Hugo offered his home in Brussels to the fugitives of the slaughterhouse.
That is why the thought of Maxime Du Camp speaking over Hugo’s grave—a man complicit in the slaughter, whether hot-blooded or cold—fills me with horror.
As a child, I sent poems to Victor Hugo; I sent them throughout my life, except since my return from Caledonia. Why would I? The master was celebrated by all, even those who once refrained from celebrating him; I had no need to attend joyous occasions.
But on the grave where Maxime Du Camp of Satory dares to speak, I return, crying out from prison as the dead would cry if they could feel through the void, through the earth:
“Back, you villains! Hail to the bard who cursed the executioners!”
TO THE SPIRIT OF VICTOR HUGO
“Strike this man without hesitation.”
– Victor Hugo
To the survivors of May, amidst the great massacre,
He offered his home; today, on his grave,
It is Maxime Du Camp,
Du Camp of Satory! who will speak.
Why should one with a blood-stained brow
Salute this bard at the Capitol,
A man marked by the blood of the defeated,
Which horrified the master?
Not in the battles, but after, as a traitor,
Like a hunting dog flushing out prey,
This voluntary informant
Spent six years hunting down citizens
For the military courts.
The executioner Gallifet shows his face;
We know the fifteen names of those given no reprieve;
In the bloody slaughterhouse,
They only killed; he, Du Camp,
Threw mud at those he pointed out to be shot,
He, Maxime Du Camp!
Du Camp of Satory, strike this man
Without hesitation—not as you would strike another,
But with a slap across the face.
For his shameful words are nothing more than a challenge,
A spit cast at the throng
That surrounds him, growling.
Beneath blossoming trees, on this blood-red anniversary,
As an insult to those who sleep beneath the earth,
He shall not speak.
Oh master, we guard the graves and prisons;
Not one of his words shall fall on you,
Nor the sound of his steps.
Ah, from the gaping tomb,
The people will cast him,
A straw in the storm,
This sinister buffoon.
Let him be carried by the terrible winds of wrath,
By the winds that crack our banners in the air;
Let him be blown away, this rag.Perhaps it will be at Père-Lachaise.
Maxime Du Camp of Satory, speaking at Père-Lachaise! Before the white wall of the executed!
This monster, who served as a supplier for the executioners for more than six years, did so out of pleasure, not like the miserable wretches who mostly do it to feed their starving children.
What horrors does starvation drive the poor to commit? But he, Maxime Du Camp of Satory, did it for his own pleasure—flushing out the defeated before the victors!
I had somewhat forgotten him amidst so much pain. The horrifying idea of him standing before us during these days of May brought his crimes back to mind. Perhaps he would meet his just punishment if he dared show himself there.
Far away in Caledonia, on an enormous rock opening like a giant rose, its granite petals streaked with small black rivulets of lava like threads of black blood, I engraved a stanza by Hugo for the cyclones:
“Paris bleeding, under the moonlight,
Dreams upon the common grave.
Glory to General Trestaillon!
No more press, no more tribune.
Eighty-nine wears a gag;
The Revolution, terrible to those who touch her,
Lies on the ground;
A Cartouche can do what no Titan could.
Escobar laughs with a crooked grin.
Behold, upon you, giant Republic,
The sabers of Lilliput trail.
The judge, a merchant in robes,
Sells the law.”
Lazaret! Lazaret! Lazaret! Rise up!
VICTOR HUGO
May this stanza, O master, scatter upon your tomb!
Like the drama, which no longer exists in theaters because it unfolds in reality in the streets, amidst the crowds of the new legend, poetry now belongs to everyone.
It is a sense that develops like that of liberty, like that of harmony, alongside a thousand others we do not yet know, within the revolutionary currents where everything buds, where everything will bloom, where everything will bear fruit and form its sheaf.
A strange thing is the resemblance among four elderly figures who have recently passed, swept away with the century that is ending: Louis Blanc, Victor Hugo, Blanqui, and Pierre Malézieux, the man of June and ’71, who no longer wanted to live after returning, only to be deemed too old to work by the employers.
The resemblance between Victor Hugo and Pierre Malézieux was striking and complete: the same grandeur illuminated both faces, gentle in the poet, proud in the old fighter, casting both in a magnificent light. They both resembled the ancient Homer.
Have you ever seen old lions lying down, gazing at you? There is in these gentle yet strong beasts something reminiscent of these great elders.
The rock I mentioned earlier, on which, between two lines of lava framing it like a mourning page, I engraved verses of Hugo back there, attests—by the variety of stones pressed into it while incandescent, some of which, having cooled quickly, retained their pure essence—that the lands of New Caledonia underwent geological revolutions that caused new peaks to emerge or preserved portions of the continent they fragmented.
Like Australia and New Zealand, New Caledonia must have been connected to Asia. Perhaps smaller, closer islands of Polynesia emerged separately, but certain bay indentations and mountain ruptures, where one mountain was split into two that could clearly be joined again, attest to the upheavals of the Caledonian terrain.
Moreover, the Caledonian rat seemed similar to the Australian rat; the New Zealand dog is considered a variety of the Australian dingo. And if the Quaternary skull of Neanderthal has its analogues among still-living Oceanian races, one can accept that an immense continent fragmented into the ocean in prehistoric times, with others sinking elsewhere.
I do not know if the migrations described in Polynesian traditions, which recount encountering another race upon their arrival, are accurate. However, the legends surrounding them are too numerous not to contain some kernel of truth.
Nor do I know the basis of claims that certain Asian tribes belong to the same type as Oceanian tribes. But I believe the supposed albinos observed by Cook and others in these regions are not albinos at all, but the last remnants of an Aryan branch with long hair and blue eyes, characteristics not associated with albinism.
These Aryans, lost during a migration or amid a geological revolution, lived and intermarried among Oceanian tribes. This explains their extinction and the stunted forms of their last representatives.
Andia, the white bard with long hair, Andia the Takala, who near Ataï, Andia sang and was killed in battle—one of the last, if not the very last of his kind. His body was twisted like the trunks of the niaouli trees, but his heart was brave.
Andia—his name indeed echoed the lineage of the Aryans. Within the traditions of his people or through his own refined musical ear, he found—or rediscovered—the lute amidst the Kanaks, who used palm fronds, struck bamboo, and a conch-shell horn for their orchestra. He crafted its strings from the entrails of a wild cat, a degenerate descendant of cats left behind by Cook. These cats had evolved kangaroo-like hind legs due to the need for jumping in the forests.
A bagpipe was also crafted by Naïna, inspired by his ancestors’ traditions, though he made it savagely from the skin of a traitor.
This bard, with his olive skin, twisted legs, enormous head, dwarfish stature, and luminous blue eyes, died for freedom at the hand of a traitor.
Ataï himself fell by betrayal. May traitors everywhere be cursed!
According to Kanak law, only a chief may strike another chief—or through a proxy. Noudo, a chief who had allied with the colonizers, gave his proxy to Segou, handing him the weapons that would kill Ataï.
Between the Cases Neigres and Amboa, Ataï, accompanied by a few of his people, was returning to his camp when Segou, breaking away from the columns of the whites, pointed out the great chief, distinguished by the snow-white color of his hair.
With his sling wrapped around his head, holding a gendarmerie saber in his right hand and a tomahawk in his left, and surrounded by his three sons and the bard Andia (armed with a spear used like a lance), Ataï turned to face the white soldiers.
He spotted Segou.
“Ah!” he said. “So, here you are!”
The traitor faltered momentarily under the old chief’s gaze but, determined to act, threw a spear that pierced Ataï’s right arm. Ataï then raised the tomahawk in his left hand. His sons fell—one dead, the others wounded. Andia charged forward, shouting, “Tango! Tango!” (“Cursed! Cursed!”) and fell, fatally struck.
Then, like chopping down a tree, Segou struck Ataï with an axe. Ataï clutched his partially severed head, but it took several more blows to finally kill him.
The Kanaks let out a death cry, which echoed across the mountains.
At the death of Gally Passeboc, the Kanaks saluted their enemy with the same cry because, they said, “We honor the brave.”
Ataï’s head was sent to Paris; I do not know what became of the bard’s head.
May Andia’s chant fall upon their memory:
“The Takata, in the forest, has gathered the adouéke, the shield herb, beneath the moonlight—the adouéke, the herb of war, the plant of the specters.
The warriors share the adouéke, which makes them formidable and heals wounds.
The spirits blow the storm winds, the spirits of the ancestors; they await the brave. Friends or foes, the brave are welcome beyond life.
Let those who wish to live depart. This is war; blood will flow like water on the earth; the adouéke must also be of blood.”
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 10
Since I have seen the cyclones, I no longer look at European storms the way I once loved them.
There, from time to time, with my eyes fixed on the sea, my thoughts free to roam through space, I would revisit the days of the past. I could smell the scent of roses from the far end of the garden, the cut hay in the summer sun, and the sharp smell of hemp that I used to love so much. Now, I no longer think of it.
I saw it all again—thousands of details that had not struck me at the time returned to me in my carefully searched memories. I realized the sacrifices my poor mother had made for me, quietly, without complaint. She would have given me her blood, just as she let me take, bit by bit, everything we possessed for ideas that were not her own. She would have wanted to live near me, in some peaceful corner, perhaps a small village school lost in the woods.
Poor mother! Now it is all over; but after you (except for the Revolution), after you, nothing else matters—except to go where you now rest, far away, and be near you. Now, the pens that once poured so much venom on me can probe into my heart like raven’s beaks; they will find nothing but stone there.
And yet, at certain hours, this stone still bleeds.
Yesterday, May 24, a quick bugle call pierced the air; that sound of brass chilled my chest. That call felt like an echo of the days of May 1871. Are soldiers still being led against the people who would defend them from Tonkin, where their bodies go to fertilize the soil?
Let us speak of the past.
In Nouméa, I had the opportunity to observe the Kanak people up close during my Sunday school.
Well! They are neither stupid nor cowardly—two qualities so esteemed in this era! Their curiosity about the unknown is as strong as ours, perhaps even stronger. Their perseverance is remarkable; it is not uncommon for them, after days or even years of trying to understand something that intrigues them, to come to you and say, “I understand what you said the other day.” They call it “the other day,” no matter how long it has been.
In these minds, like blank pages, new things could be written clearly—perhaps more so than in ours, so cluttered with doctrines and smudged with erasures.
The Kanak people need dynamic methods; do not all young minds? Do we not also learn faster through dramatic, colorful experiences than through dry lists? In any case, as the Kanak people lack the time or opportunity to sit on school benches—often without even having trousers to wear—and since those who have taught them so far are in a hurry to move them toward legible writing, rapid methods must take precedence.
Reading, arithmetic, and elements of music are taught more effectively using a stick on a wall where letters, numbers, and musical notation are drawn. A black dot represents notes, and the dynamic approach helps them grasp these concepts more easily. Writing is learned almost intuitively; with movable letters, they quickly compose and write words properly.
I say “properly” with confidence because the Kanak people possess extraordinary dexterity with their hands, both in writing and drawing.
Speaking of drawing, their confidence in recreating outlines or letter shapes helps them perfectly replicate a drawing or writing model. From this, it is a small step to carving the same shapes in relief on wooden boards—it is essentially the same skill.
In Nouméa, I had a piano that some friends may remember. Part of its keys were mute, and one could not use it without singing constantly—until Bœuf restored it into a proper instrument. And so it served its purpose.
This became part of a method I found effective. Using a study piano with mechanisms to mute certain notes temporarily—sometimes one section, sometimes another—students learn to identify the gaps. They fill these gaps by singing the missing notes of the piece they are studying or creating their own musical phrases to fill them. This process often leads to motifs that are strange, and sometimes beautiful.
I tried this method both with the school children and during my Sunday Kanak classes. The fastest way to start with music is to have students transpose an extremely simple motif, while also practicing scales and chords—sometimes struck as a whole, sometimes as arpeggios. All of this is done as simply as possible.
For rhythm, students experiment by altering the time signature of the same notes—a useful exercise.
Ah, comrades, you laughed at the idea of a Kanak orchestra, but wait! In my Sunday class, there were tall Tayos with ears perfectly adapted to hearing, honed by the sea winds in the palms and the roar of storms. Having reflected for years on the little they learned, they might yet surprise us with what they create from it.
Their sense of numbers is, unlike ours—habituated to vastness through our travels and crowds—limited to small quantities. For them, large quantities are incomprehensible; they call such numbers nombarou, or “uncountable.” But where their “uncountable” means infinity, ours often feels like just a handful. Thus, it is better to begin teaching them mathematics with algebra rather than arithmetic.
Let them dream over all this! If, instead of civilizing young peoples with bullets, we sent schoolteachers to their tribes—as Mayor Simon of Nouméa once wished—they would long since have buried the stone of war instead of harvesting mirarem (the war herb) under the moonlight.
During my time in Nouméa, Pérusset died following a shipwreck, surviving it only through extraordinary willpower. I had forgiven the old sea wolf long before for refusing to join me that cyclone night. He had accomplished many other daring feats. Perhaps he sensed the sea would one day claim him. Both humans and animals have instincts that warn them of danger, though we often lose them by overthinking. A horse, freed of its rider’s control, will find hidden paths beneath the snow.
Who knows? If he had listened to me, we might have ended up in Sydney’s harbor like so many other wrecks.
From time to time, during my Sunday Kanak classes, I would see Mr. Simon’s face at the window. Afterward, I could always expect to receive whatever we lacked—chalk, boards for carving, notebooks, and even treats like firecrackers and tobacco for the Tayos.
As for Mrs. Simon, the schoolteachers of Nouméa, and other kind ladies, they know, like the friends of 1871 who stayed behind, how dear their memory is to me. But shall I confess something? What I miss most are my black friends—the wild ones with their bright eyes and childlike hearts. Yes, I loved them, and I still do. Truly they accused me, during the revolt, of wishing for them to conquer their freedom—and they were right.
The conquest of their freedom! Is that even possible before they have given such proof of intelligence and courage? Let us end this notion of superiority that only manifests itself through destruction!
At the same time as the news of the amnesty, I received word that my poor mother had suffered her first stroke. She was overcome with sadness and feared she would never see me again; I too was terrified of arriving too late.
Thus, my journey was a somber one. I barely ventured onto the deck, save for brief moments. The thought that she might pass away before I reached her never left my mind.
Yet the voyage was beautiful. Passing through the Suez Canal marked the completion of the round-the-world journey I had begun on the Virginie, now ending on the John-Helder. There were twenty other deportees aboard, whom I had encountered in Sydney. Thanks to the lessons I had given and the help of a few friends, I was able to take the mail ship to hasten my return to my mother.
In Sydney, the French consul was initially reluctant to repatriate me with the others. However, when I informed him that, if refused, I would be obliged to hold a series of lectures on the Paris Commune and use the proceeds to fund my journey, he preferred to send me along with the others aboard the John-Helder, which was bound for London.
I am unsure of the exact nature of the French consul in Sydney. But I recall seeing a painting in Holland depicting a Flemish burgomaster seated peacefully in front of a large beer stein, which could very well have been Gambrinus’s own. The likeness was uncanny—the coloring of the face, the posture, the profound calm.
Seeing that portrait helped me understand, perhaps even more than meeting the consul himself, how subversive our ideas must have seemed to him. Despite the kindness that lay hidden in his demeanor, he must have found it preferable to expedite my departure so I could reunite with my mother.
Our friends, Henry and others, lavished us with treats for the journey. We had many lighthearted disputes over who should take the smallest share, so much so that we eventually left everything together, and they found ways to ensure I consumed the largest portion.
I am convinced they often went without coffee themselves while making sure I had some. I always had some left.
I had seen a bit of Sydney’s surroundings with Mrs. Henry: the woods, the vast solitudes crisscrossed by wide roads where all you see is forest—always forest, full of gum and eucalyptus trees.
They say whip snakes and others are common there, but we didn’t see a single one. It’s true that it was the end of winter, and as elsewhere, these animals must avoid the cold.
I didn’t see kangaroos either, which I would have found much more interesting. The convenience of such wide and well-kept roads cutting through the forests must keep wild animals at bay.
Sydney is already an old city; even Melbourne feels like Europe—though a Europe washed clean by the sea.
Some Memories
I have an album from Sydney where Mrs. Henry, her children, Lucien Henry, and other friends wrote messages on the first few pages. In Melbourne, unknown friends came to visit us and signed their names. Before we parted, my twenty traveling companions also wrote theirs.
That’s all that’s left of the album’s pages. The others were given away aboard the John-Helder, where I sketched delicate, frail little faces of the many English babies in the third-class cabins. Their parents, being less fortunate and true to Albion’s tradition, seemed to have collections of these babies.
The poor are always blessed with numerous offspring; nature compensates in advance for the lives cut short by death. The mothers—blonde, English like their babies—asked for these sketches, and rightly so.
A few sketches of burly sailors also found new homes, leaving me with just one drawing I made near the Isthmus of Suez. It depicted a desert of sand where the rocks resembled reclining statues of Isis. In the distance, there was nothing but sand, while along the shore, between the Nile and niaouli bark-like stratified rocks forming walls, a resting caravan lay with camels stretched out on the sand.
I had a few fortunate encounters, such as meeting an English lady who dedicated herself to helping those unfortunate women shamed as prostitutes—as if the shame were theirs rather than their oppressors’.
There was also an elderly Englishwoman who accompanied me on the journey from Melbourne to London, a Frenchwoman, and many others. How many genuine friendships could blossom during travel if we lived in a less harsh society!
A Touch of Ridiculousness for Those Who Enjoy a Laugh
I brought five of my oldest cats from Nouméa, entrusting the three younger and more beautiful ones to friends. From Nouméa to Sydney, they traveled on deck, sheltering as best they could in a crate. In the cold regions, where the wind blew harsh and icy, they huddled together, likely missing their homeland’s warm sun. Yet they seemed to understand they needed to stay quiet. Neither there nor aboard the John-Helder, where they were smuggled in a parrot cage and tethered like dogs to the beam supporting my bunk, did they make a sound. They merely nuzzled me sorrowfully.
Once in London, gathered around a huge bowl of milk provided by friends and warmed by the fire, they finally began to stretch and yawn. Only then did the big red tom and the old black cat voice their undoubtedly low opinions of the English ship. Meanwhile, the three kittens gazed at the fire with adoration.
Rather than fabricating comical episodes about my return, as Le Figaro and other humorous papers attempted, they might have opened their eyes to see what Jules Vallès, Marie, and I carried under our arms like portfolios. Hidden beneath our coats, those “portfolios” were cats!
Three are still alive: the old black one and two of the younger ones. Laugh if you will, but these living remnants of my home—these poor creatures who spent two years at my mother’s side or on her bed during my absence—are dear to me. They are as cherished as anything can be for someone who now faces a desolate life and a destroyed home.
Perhaps it’s better for us to be this way. It prevents us from looking back.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 11
I will speak briefly about the warm reception we received from the exiles in London. We had not seen each other in ten years, and finding ourselves reunited like this felt like reliving the days of the Commune.
On the way, I had learned through a letter from Marie that my poor mother, upon hearing news of my return, had slightly recovered. I was delighted to be back among our people, but my eagerness to see her again was so strong that I left immediately for Paris.
With our tickets purchased and ten francs each in our pockets, our friends escorted us to the station, where we were to take the train to the boat departing for Dieppe.
The London station was resounding with the Marseillaise, which we heard echoing for a long time as we approached. English sensibilities were not the slightest bit disturbed, and as long as we could hear it, we responded, without anyone seeking to reproach us.
At Dieppe, friends were waiting at the station. At the first stop after, there was my dear Marie with Madame Camille B…
I have a few documents preserved by Marie regarding my return. Here is a letter I addressed to Rochefort and Olivier Pain:
To the Citizens Rochefort and Pain,
I received a message from Pain asking for details about my arrival.
But you know well that if I accept being the subject of one of these receptions, which are rarely worth the price of an entire life, I do not want it to focus on my person but solely on the social revolution and the women of this revolution, to whom all attention should be directed.
Besides, I only remember this: that I embraced you all upon my arrival, and, overwhelmed by the thought of seeing my mother again, I wanted to hear nothing and understood nothing until I reached the Gare Saint-Lazare. I only saw that great, murmuring crowd I once loved so deeply—and love even more now, having returned from the wilderness. I only heard the Marseillaise, and one overwhelming impression dominated me: that rather than sacrifice this beloved crowd to new massacres, it is better to risk only one head, and that the nihilists are right.
I am eager to give thanks, eager to say that, along with the ten deportees who returned yesterday, we also received in London, through the last of the exiles, one of those fraternal welcomes that had almost prepared us for yesterday’s events. It proves how deeply we are connected and how much we remember across time, exile, and death.
I am writing to you and to Joffrin about the Montmartre meeting, as I cannot attend any other before it. Montmartre was where I marched before; Montmartre is where I march today.
I embrace you both with all my heart,
Louise Michel
LOUISE MICHEL
As seen in previous chapters, there was a meeting in Montmartre, in the Élysée-Montmartre hall, which was filled with memories for me. Here are some others; I find the accounts of them in one of Marie’s registers.
Among others was the meeting in the Salle Graffard. On this subject, I don’t know why I have often seen beneath certain caricatures, portraits, and even, I believe, at the inscription in the Grévin Museum: Louise Michel at the Salle Graffard. I must have been at the Salle Graffard like I was in any other hall. It seems to me that one’s appearance doesn’t change depending on the platform they speak from.
Under my portrait, which a very young painter—the son of Madame Tynaire—insisted on painting for the Salon, and which I let him complete despite the discomfort I felt at sitting for it (it was immediately after Marie’s death), the young artist inscribed the legend: Louise Michel at the Salle Graffard.
I allowed this portrait to be made so as not to discourage a talented child, confident it would be accepted for two reasons. The first, which I consider most important, is that he paints well. The second reason, which I relied upon for him, is that the portrait is an exact likeness—not of me, but of an old prisoner I saw in 1872 at the central prison in Auberive, named Madame Dumollard.
I acknowledge my lack of beauty, but between that and the magnificently painted portrait—which does not resemble me at all—there is a striking difference that anyone could verify by comparing it to any photograph of me placed alongside the portrait.
The reactionaries must have been rubbing their hands with glee, saying, What a monster!
It made me laugh until someone foolishly recounted the story to my mother, causing her distress. However, her worry didn’t last after the following incident:
A man, stiff as a wooden puppet and as meticulously dressed as if pinned together by a million needles, appeared at 45 Boulevard Ornano, where my mother and I lived.
“Is Mademoiselle Michel here?” he asked, without removing his hat and tapping his little cane against his right leg.
“That’s me.”
“No, it’s not you.”
“What do you mean, it’s not me?”
“Come now! I know Louise Michel; I’ve seen her portrait in the Salon.”
“Well?”
“Well! Don’t mock me. Besides, Louise Michel wouldn’t be the kind of woman who opens her own door. Go and fetch her! I’m telling you, it’s not her who answers the door.”
“Well, it’s her who closes it, too,” I replied, and as the man hesitated slightly, I shoved him fully outside and slammed the door in his face. He muttered a bit on the other side, then I heard him leave, still grumbling.
Indeed, they claimed I had carriages and horses and pretended to believe that the meetings were for my personal profit.
Since those who organized the meetings knew exactly how the funds were used, I admit I paid little attention to such malicious nonsense.
Marie stayed with my mother whenever I went out, allowing me to travel across the South, where various revolutionary groups had invited me.
In Bordeaux, I was with Cournet. I recall an intimate meeting where representatives of various revolutionary factions gathered to discuss the question of death.
“We will die standing!” Cournet exclaimed. He envisioned the upheaval that would occur when the revolution rises from all sides to storm the old wreckage.
On that day, everyone will give their all—the young and the survivors of the massacre, probably the last Blanquists. These connections will bolster the revolutionary forces like an army. Leading the charge, the 71ers will take their place alongside anarchist groups, where we too have the right to die standing.
But do not lament, comrades felled at the red anniversary, led to Père-Lachaise under blood-soaked banners. You died without abandoning the struggle; that is to die standing.
I have vaguely heard—since I haven’t read newspapers in two years—what happened at Père-Lachaise on May 26.
It was inevitable. The ban on carrying banners of prohibited colors made it foreseeable. O my friends, let none among you, after the victory of the people, be foolish enough to aspire to any kind of power.
All powers will lead to such outcomes—all of them! When one dons the Nessus tunic of authority, they simultaneously feel the madness of Charenton creeping in.
This time, let the people be the masters. The sense of liberty will grow. Perhaps it is better that we fall in the struggle so that after victory, no general staff is formed again, and the people understand that power is just and noble when shared among all, but it drives individuals mad when concentrated in a few.
A friend reads me a passage from a newspaper, wanting me to be aware of it. After the brutality of those intoxicated by wine and blood, there are always—just like in ’71—those who applaud them, encourage them, and claim not enough murders have been committed.
When victory comes, and even in the very moment it belongs to us, I hope we will have something better to do than commit such atrocities.
The Revolution is terrible, but its goal is the happiness of humanity. It requires bold fighters, relentless combatants—and so it must.
Do you think it matters whether one pulls a drowning person from the water by their hair or by any other means? The Revolution acts similarly to rescue humanity from the ocean of mud and blood where thousands of unknowns are devoured by a few sharks.
Ah, here I go again! Let me return to my story.
After my arrest following the Blanqui anniversary affair, Marie fell ill.
For ten years, she had suffered from a heart condition. Any strong emotion was dangerous for her, and she experienced a violent one when she saw me arrested.
Poor Marie!
She sleeps now, wrapped in a great red shawl that someone gave me to use as a banner if needed. It became a shroud instead—for us, it is now the same.
MARIE FERRÉ
My friends, since we must say that she is dead,
That we will no longer see her at the threshold of our prisons;
Since the cold void remains sealed,
And our cries to the departed are in vain,
Let us speak of her for a moment; let her name bring us back
To those we have lost.
Modest, she could be both heroic and proud,
A contrast we often admired in her charm.
Now, it is over; in the dark cemetery,
She sleeps forever, taking with her
Our last smile. Beneath her stone,
My heart feels buried alive.
Between the barren sky and the unkind earth,
When we sometimes have treasures so precious,
It is only for death to strike them down,
So that everything under the red flags is grief.
All those we love are like vines in the hearth,
Consumed, taken by the tombs!
O Revolution! Mother who devours us,
And whom we adore, ultimate equality!
Take our shattered destinies to forge a new dawn.
Let liberty soar above our cherished dead!
When grim May tolls its bell, awaken us again
To your magnificent light!
Louise Michel.
February 1882.
I thought I would die after this terrible blow. My mother remained, my mother and the Revolution. Now, I have only the Revolution.
Will these memoirs have many volumes? I don’t know! It depends on many things. If one wished to say everything, one could write endlessly.
In any case, I might do well to outline the history of my imprisonments in this first volume.
It is important to understand how many brave hearts can be found among those wretched individuals who are so often despised. It is equally important to see things as they truly are, and only those who have lived through them can know. I conclude the chapter on conferences to move on to that of prisons.
Here, I include a few more excerpts. Here is one from our friend Deneuvillers, an honest counterpart to what happened on the same day in another venue. In a previous chapter, I described the madness of the reactionaries, enraged because people of good faith were listening, without prejudice, to discussions about the Revolution.
I share this excerpt, not out of personal pride, but out of revolutionary pride. It highlights the conduct of the people in contrast to that of their exploiters, whether they are conscious or unconscious of the roles they play.
LOUISE MICHEL IN GHENT
Louise Michel gave a lecture on Wednesday at Mont-Parnasse Hall in support of the socialist cause. Three thousand comrades were present and gave an enthusiastic welcome to the speaker, who spoke on revolutionary propaganda.
When the citizen speaker left to give another lecture at the Hippodrome—this one in a bourgeois, reactionary environment—the honest and brave people of Ghent wished to accompany her as an escort to protect her from insults.
But Louise Michel told them:
“We must not let the enemies of the people believe that we idolize any one of us. We must only honor the Revolution. That is why I ask you to let me go alone.”
As calm and enthusiastic as the workers were, the reactionaries at the Hippodrome were equally hostile.
Savage and Furious!
The frenzied clerics had spent three days organizing howling choristers whose purpose was to drown out the speaker. The scene was a cacophony of wide-open mouths screaming furiously and an uprising of cudgels that could rival Piétri’s forces!
Comic side: As a souvenir of clerical arguments, the speaker kept a two-kilogram piece of bench that was thrown at her head.
Catholic mobs gathered in the streets, shouting against the socialists. They even attempted to assassinate the one they labeled as their leader, the brave Anseele, who managed to escape their clutches thanks only to our intervention in the fray.
Throughout the evening, we witnessed the epileptic fury of those who believe that by silencing a lecture, they have somehow saved religion and society.
Without the protection of the mayor and the chief of police, who heroically intervened in the conflict at the circus and even at the train station, it is uncertain what might have happened to our friend.
These vile actions will not stop the wind of freedom from blowing full sail and bringing the Revolution closer and more inevitable.
DENEUVILLERS
I am compelled to seek my quotations from friends, as I cannot find the truth elsewhere. When possible, I omit overly flattering remarks they include, sometimes in response to exaggerated hatred expressed from the opposite side.
I do not claim to be deserving, as I follow my own inclinations like all beings and things. But neither am I a monster.
We are all products of our time, that’s all. Each of us has our qualities and flaws—it’s the common law. But what does it matter what we are if our work is great and shields us in its greatness? Light
It is not about us in what we begin; it is about what will be for humanity when we are gone.
Allow me to quote this excerpt from L’Intransigeant:
On one hand, we read in Le Voltaire:
What revolutionary propaganda yields:
The conferences of Miss Louise Michel in Brussels were paid at the rate of 500 francs each, totaling 1,500 francs for the three.
At this price, calls to revolt become quite a lucrative business.
On the other hand, a kind reader, astonished by the princely donation that Citizen Louise Michel made, through our mediation, to the victims of Chagot, requests information on her means of subsistence. According to this gentleman, our friend specializes in spouting “idiocies that we find charming” and taking “pleasure trips at the expense of fools exploited by a committee of scoundrels.”
To this amiable reader, we will simply present some figures for Le Voltaire to make of them what they will:
Here, we are particularly at ease because our courageous and excellent friend is absent, and at the risk of displeasing her, we can say a fraction of what we think of her.
From the fee for her first conference, apart from the funds allocated to revolutionary propaganda, L’Intransigeant received 100 francs for the exiles of 1871.
From the fee for the second conference, 100 francs were given to the miners of Borinage; another 100 francs to the socialist press in Antwerp, and 300 francs—the remainder, labeled the “princely donation”—were listed at the head of our subscription for the defendants of Chalon-sur-Saône and their families.
Certainly, the fee for the third conference was used no less worthily or democratically.
Is our correspondent satisfied?
Let us now speak briefly of the Versailles conference. A group of anarchists, including myself, attended, expecting anything and everything, but feeling it was our duty to salute the gallows of Satory and the wall of Père-Lachaise from there.
I still have a letter about this conference. Here it is:
September 1882
Concerning the incidents that occurred during the meeting organized last Sunday in Versailles by a revolutionary socialist group, Citizen Louise Michel sends us the following note:
“Were our friends expecting a different reception for us?
We do not need to speak of Revolution to those who are already revolutionaries, but to those who are not.
Since we began with Versailles, I see no reason not to end with Brittany.
Soon we will visit those good lands of the King.
If some greet us with pitchforks, there will also be those who, through propaganda, will be won over to the social Revolution. Their Breton stubbornness will turn toward the truth; their fanaticism will be for the future instead of the past.
I have thought about this for a long time, ever since that day, standing in the Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville, I watched with indignation the broad blonde faces of Breton lads pressed against the windows of the town hall as they fired upon us with such conviction, by Trochu’s plan.
It was January 22.
Oh yes, we will win them, like everyone else, for the Revolution—the King’s loyalists, just like other proletarians.”
Louise Michel
Our friend, Citizen Louise Michel, sent the following letter yesterday to the editor-in-chief of L’Intransigeant, referencing the article titled “Memories of Satory”:
To Citizen Rochefort,
My dear companion on this journey,
I send you my hand for today’s article.
How could they imagine, these people, that the pursuit and cries of an unconscious mob could move me, while before me stood Satory?
It is exactly as if I had amused myself by complaining at the Ducos Peninsula, with the Île Nou on the horizon.
Once again, we could see that serious arguments are absent from our adversaries. They use howls: this is an admission of their defeat.
This mob, in any case, was not without its picturesque elements. There was, in particular, a lame beggar sprawling like a spider on his crutches, vociferating against the enemies of property.
Have you seen Callot’s Beggars? That one seemed plucked straight from the frame.
There were also a few hulking ruffians of Amphitrite’s court, along with some urchins (among them, perhaps, future insurgents). Altogether, it was a tableau of human folly.
No matter! That scene may have brought us more listeners. Things have an eloquence that words lack.
Not only did the slanders continue, but idiots consumed with hatred published vile accusations in a newspaper (I can no longer recall which one). These accusations had already been tried, unsuccessfully—or rather, with an outcome contrary to their intentions—at an assembly that happened to include exiled Communards.
This time, they hoped for a better result, forgetting that thousands of people had witnessed my life day by day. Once again, it was a Caledonian, Mr. Locamus, a lawyer, former municipal councilor, and former officer in Nouméa, who responded to them.
Faced with the persistence of these anonymous slanderers, I am compelled to address the matter once and for all with this letter, however flattering it may be, to silence these brazen scoundrels.
Is it worth it? Yes, because we, who are witnesses to these lies, may soon pass away. We must remain pure for the Revolution, which will live on eternally. It is not unnecessary to shake off the stains of mud.
Citizen Locamus, former municipal councilor of Nouméa, sends us the following letter:
We believe it is worth publishing, even though our friend Louise Michel requires no certification to disprove vile slanders against which her entire life stands in protest:
Paris, February 27.
To the Editor-in-Chief,
I have just read in L’Intransigeant the few lines from Louise Michel’s response to her slanderers. I have not read the slander itself, but like you, I am convinced it deserves only contempt.
However, since Louise Michel has chosen to respond, I feel it is my duty to intervene.
Nouméa is far away, and the response to these slanders could take too long to arrive. Fortunately, there are Nouméans in Paris.
In my capacity as municipal councilor of Nouméa, delegated to public education in 1879 and 1880, I wish to offer our former communal teacher a certificate of esteem and gratitude.
The municipal public education commission was composed of three members: Mr. Puech, a prominent merchant; Mr. Armand, an amnestied exile; and myself.
The secular schools we established in the colony produced excellent results.
Louise Michel, appointed to assist us by an interim mayoral decree issued by Mr. Simon, carried out her duties with unwavering dedication.
Her contributions were of immense value to us.
I would add that Louise Michel’s conduct and demeanor in Nouméa inspired respect and admiration, even among her political opponents.
Yours sincerely,
P. LOCAMUS
Now, let us talk about the conferences in London. The travel expenses were covered by Citizens Otterbein from Brussels and Mas from Antwerp, to whom I still owe thanks.
In London, I lived as before with our friends Varlet, Armand Moreau, and Viard; all spoiled me a bit, as they always do. I am far from spending money when I go to London; on the contrary, it is they who spend it. As for the proceeds from the conferences, our friends know what they were intended for.
Because the venue was very expensive, a meeting of revolutionary groups made up the shortfall. L’Intransigeant contributed further, as it had been promised to our disabled friends from 1871 that they would receive a small token of support.
The proceeds were modest compared to our long-held plan to create a modest establishment—nothing grand, but at least a place where former exiles who had become unable to work—or rather, to whom work was denied, for Communards are proud—could find a little bread and a few drops of broth. This would require no qualification other than poverty.
Through these gatherings, we hoped that maintaining this house, run by invalids under the name Bouillon des proscrits (Broth for the Exiled), might have saved some desperate souls.
Even the English newspapers, including the most aristocratic and reactionary ones, reported on my London lectures with remarkable impartiality. This relative goodwill may have stemmed from the bad faith of some bourgeois papers in the Nord department. Nothing benefits a person more than being maligned too much. After a thorough bashing, the most blatant exaggerations become immediately apparent.
As for the reports from Paris’s opportunist newspapers, they were all based on the same template. They didn’t even need to send reporters. Simply knowing the name of the venue, the topic of discussion, and the organizing group was enough to craft yet another narrative of “the revolutionary fury.”
My London lectures, held in affluent neighborhoods where people only knew me through the legends crafted by my enemies in France, surprised my British audience. They didn’t find me as rude or as ridiculous as they had been led to believe. They couldn’t reconcile the image they had of me with the person they encountered. Consequently, all the newspapers, even the aristocratic Pall Mall Gazette, treated me with perfect courtesy.
One thing that puzzled them was my unconventional views on workhouses. They mistakenly saw a contradiction in me; but I will expand on my thoughts about this subject later.
They misunderstood when they spoke of my “enthusiasm” for the institution. Such a feeling could never be inspired by workhouses. I merely took pleasure in observing that England, unlike others, considers it a duty to care for those who lack bread and shelter.
I won’t mention the names of those who showed me sympathy during my stay there. They will remember that winter evening, under the dark London sky, shrouded in a misty shroud of rain, sometimes a drizzle and sometimes a downpour. In the icy, grand, and cold hall of the affluent district with its massive palaces—beneath which the destitute lived in holes like animals—I felt the enduring presence of human decency, despite the cursed restraints we perpetually impose on ourselves.
Those present may not have shared my beliefs, but they were sincere, and for some reason, their grave and composed demeanor gave me a sense of family.
Then, as I had done in my childhood at Vroncourt, or as a young teacher sitting by the hearthstone at Madame Fayet’s house, letting all my thoughts spill out, I stood in the grand, cold hall and spoke of the scenes of my life. I recounted everything, from Vroncourt to New Caledonia, with the vivid feeling of past events still present in my memory.
Perhaps some of them remember. I told them, after all, to recall these moments when, during our trials, the courts present us in a distorted light.
If, like all humanity, some of the beast remains in us, it is not the beast they exhibit. The show is false. What is missing is the cunning of serpents hissing over the same crater where lions roar, awaiting the lava to sweep us away.
One thing struck me in England, which I expressed immediately: the care with which, in some workhouses—Lambeth, for example—the immense nest of misery is cushioned, allowing suffering to wait in this island while the rest of Europe undergoes its revolution. Then, refusing to imitate the follies it observed in others, Albion will act all at once. Albion will rise suddenly, shake off the dust from its white robe, and ignite a sacred fire, stoked by the winds of the open sea into a bright dawn.
To prolong the life of their outdated institutions, the English invigorate them with the enthusiasm of women. Women run the workhouses, and there will be women in Parliament.
But the green branches of the old tree cannot rejuvenate its rotten trunk. They will produce leaves and flowers as long as they can, drawing not from the dried sap but from the warm, nourishing air that sustains their existence.
There is a particular workhouse where the elderly and the poor are genuinely happy. This is because its director understands that freedom is necessary for the unfortunate to live as others do.
There are no rigid rules here—it is written plainly on the wall. As a result, the order is greater there than anywhere else. It is the clock that governs.
At mealtime, during work hours, or walks, everyone goes freely where they need to, just as one would in their own home.
Ah, Miss M…, Miss X…, Miss F…, you think I have forgotten you? Not at all!
Do you believe, Miss M…, that the book where you wrote the old Mountain Man’s words—Neither God nor Master—no longer exists? I still have it.
I also still have The Song of the Shirt, so beautifully translated into French verse by you, Sir T.S…
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 12
The fragments in this chapter focus on various conferences. First, here is a letter I addressed to the Citoyen:
A Historical Phrase:
“Pigs should not be allowed to fatten.”
Evidently, Le Gaulois didn’t get their money’s worth because, in “restoring” my phrase (which, I admit, was only three-quarters written), they made it almost polite, while my intention was far harsher than the offense.
This offense, by the way, was taken up by supporters of a certain individual, who claim that their master is attacked every time the animal in question is mentioned. They cry out against lèse-majesté. Still, their language is crude, whereas we use the parliamentary term domesticated boar!
But while the well-fed are digesting, let us not forget those who are hungry and cold—the brave ones who, in 1871, prevented the return of the Empire and now find themselves without work or shelter, wandering frozen streets.
Some dedicated citizens have proposed forming, through a massive conference, a soup kitchen that would last until March. There, every amnestied person could find a daily meal to keep them from starving.
If one or two hundred families or individuals could also offer lodging to an amnestied person without work until then, the people themselves would have saved their deported and imprisoned brothers from death.
This would mark the beginning of managing our affairs ourselves.
LOUISE MICHEL
(Le Citoyen, January 28, 1881)
The second part of this letter pertains to the establishment of the Bouillon des proscrits (Broth for the Exiled), which we hoped to create out of nothing. The conferences and the dedication of those who worked would support those unable to work.
Some who found the crumb that occasionally saves a life might have, in turn, helped others later. The account book would have always been open.
Still, one must avoid being mistaken for exploiters when one contributes time and what little one can earn.
The idea of exploitation plagued me, thanks to a band of fools who circulated absurdities—claims that I owned horses and carriages, that I had income from rents, and so on. These slanders pursued me during the three years I spent in freedom after returning from exile.
My poor mother often cried over this—so good and simple she was. When letters of insult followed demands for three or four hundred francs—or even thousands—while there wasn’t a single sou in the house!
One hardly has time to run to publishers when part of the time is spent caring for a sick mother and the rest on conferences.
Thus, I collaborated with those who had the time to secure publishers.
Oh, how happy I would be if she were still here—my dear mother. How little I would worry about all these accusations!
On the subject of money, I’ve always kept receipts or records, whether in New Caledonia or since my return, to establish what I’ve done with any sums I’ve managed, should the need arise.
Now, let me address the part of the letter unrelated to the Bouillon des proscrits. I explain it, trivial as it may seem, for the amusement of some readers.
Certain newspapers liked to spread the claim that I uttered the absurdity: “When pigs are fat, they are slaughtered.” What I actually said, in the context of a series of comparisons, was that a boar degraded by fattening becomes a domesticated pig. That’s all.
Yet every time Saint Anthony’s companion was mentioned, reactionaries claimed it was an insult to a government figure.
Anything associated with fatness became unspeakable. Even the name Vitellius was banned.
Sometimes, the person in question wasn’t even on anyone’s mind. If they were alive, I wouldn’t end this so briefly.
Here’s a fragment referencing the previously cited letter:
A Gentle Specimen of the Revolutionary Prophetess Louise Michel’s Plans
While the Socialist Study Circle of the 5th and 7th Arrondissements proclaims that weapons for the Revolution must be sharpened, Louise Michel, in two letters, elaborates on her now-historic phrase: “When pigs are fat, they are slaughtered.”
Excerpt from a letter to Mr. Fayet:
“The boar, once wild and noble, is reduced to a domesticated pig through overindulgence. It is then that it becomes suitable for slaughter, no longer representing the proud creature it once was, but instead a symbol of degradation and excess. When individuals, systems, or societies fatten themselves on the labor and suffering of others, they too risk losing their dignity and becoming ripe for destruction, just as the pig is.”
This excerpt, meant as an allegory, had been twisted to create scandal. Reactionaries, eager to find offense, used it to stir outrage, as if it were a direct attack on a specific person or institution. But the metaphor was broader, aiming to highlight the corruption of power and privilege.
The distortion of my words and intentions, however, only strengthened my resolve. Let the reactionaries clutch at straws and cry out. Their noise only amplifies the need for revolution—a force that, like the sharpening of blades, prepares the people to reclaim their dignity and justice.
Regarding the concerns you express about my future, rest assured, I will not need the hospice. You have enough of my earlier poems to know that I have always believed it is better for one to perish than for an entire people to suffer.
The last six lines of this opportunistic fragment are, and will always remain, true. It is not forbidden to wish to live only as long as one is useful and to prefer dying standing to dying lying down.
I have always been convinced that one individual is insignificant compared to the collective. However, tyrannicide is only feasible when tyranny has a single head or a small group of heads. When tyranny becomes a hydra, it is the Revolution’s task to confront it.
The term feasible may seem poorly chosen, but are we anything more than projectiles, suited or unsuited for the struggle? Are we worth considering differently, as the irresponsible beings we are? This cold language suits us, for our savage dust will occupy little space.
The generations we will not see, transformed and developed by events, may deserve more elevated words.
Still savages ourselves, we strive to clear the way for those yet to come.
Revolution will be the flowering of humanity, just as love is the flowering of the heart. Those who live it will march in its epic tale and will be the only ones to narrate it, for they will have created it. Through new currents, the rudimentary sense of art will develop for all.
In the meantime, the last bard who sang alone, like the old Homer, has passed as of yesterday. We will be the choir of bards who sing from one end of the earth to the other, finally casting off the wreckage of the old world.
The Lille Conference: The Strike of the Spinners
At Lille, the spinners were around us at the podium—workers from the city’s cellars, whose gray clogs barely shielded them from the water, and whose labor killed them prematurely.
They asked only for two or three more sous per day to continue this dreadful life.
Two or three sous for sufficient bread for those who work so hard for the rich, akin to the silkworm boiled alive after spinning its cocoon.
These women, too, die when their work is done, their lives stopping as their thread runs out.
What, then, would care for them in old age? Would their daughters, barely out of the cradle, not already be chained to the same torment?
It is necessary for the wealthy to use and abuse their “flocks.”
Silkworms, daughters of the people—they are made to spin. And like the worm boiled, the girl will die or writhe like green wood bending.
Two or three sous for a little more bread, while others amass billions!
To hold out for just one week would have forced the exploiters to give in. For this, 2,000 francs were needed.
Thanks to reactionaries who paid for seats to insult me, we raised the full amount in a single conference. I asked the organizers to secure the funds immediately. I then announced to the reactionaries that we now had what we needed, and they were free to listen to me or spend their time shouting. Either option was fine by me, as we had secured the 2,000 francs.
This blunt explanation calmed them, and the conference proceeded without further incident. Around 1 a.m., I took the train to return to my mother.
I brought back, as a sacred keepsake for Marie Ferré’s grave, the bouquet given to me by the women workers of Lille.
Unfortunately, toward the end of the week, some wrongdoers—yes, I insist on the word—deceived a few credulous workers into believing that others were returning to the capitalist prison. Thinking it their duty to follow suit, they did so, only to realize they had been duped.
It was too late, but the lesson will not be forgotten.
The Amiens Conferences
Amiens.—The Workers’ Union of Amiens sent a delegation of fifty members, led by Citizen Delambre, to greet Citizen Louise Michel at the station. Over 500 people joined the delegation.
The Workers’ Union organized a conference at the Longueville Circus in the afternoon, attended by 1,500 citizens.
After brief remarks by Citizen Hamet, who presided, Louise Michel ascended the podium. She vividly described the suffering of the working class and condemned the actions of those in power:
“The men in power today are Jesuits behind republican masks. They send soldiers to Tunis to end as they did at Sedan.
“I demand the rights of women—not as servants of men. If our enemies ever capture me, they must not release me, for I fight not as an amateur but as one who is resolute and who believes it is time for social crimes to end. During the struggle, I will show no mercy and ask for none, for I am not deceived by the lies of universal suffrage or by false concessions offered to women.”
“We are half of humanity. We fight alongside all the oppressed, and we will claim our share of equality—the only true justice.”
“The land belongs to the farmer who tills it, the mine to those who dig it. Everything belongs to everyone—bread, labor, knowledge—and the freer humanity becomes, the more it will draw wealth and power from nature.”
“The vile multitude is vast in number, and when it chooses, it will become strength—not to crush, but to liberate.” Citizen Gauthier then took the floor to present his ideas on the question of capital and labor.
Speaking of the North, I recall a series of conferences with Jules Guesde during another strike.
During the journey, we had a comical experience: a man recounting to another the funerals of famous men he had attended. If the devil existed, he certainly wouldn’t recount them like that. I wondered if he was serious. Realizing he was, I feared Guesde might be tempted to provoke the odd character. The man concluded his funeral musings by expressing his anticipation of witnessing Victor Hugo’s funeral, calculating his age and relishing the spectacle it would provide. After dwelling on this morbid idea, he moved on to another subject: Thiers.
This funeral raven of a man had an uncanny knack for conversation. The other, whose neck was as red as a turkey’s, admired him, as did a young woman with wide, astonished eyes. But then a traveling salesman—neither pretentious nor boastful—interrupted, replacing the man’s nonsense with facts, much to the dismay of this gentleman lamenting the “hardships of poor employers.”
This tour also had its amusing incidents. At one café, a dozen idlers gathered around us, staring as if we were exotic animals.
I began sketching their faces, capturing their expressions with a brutal honesty that reflected their beastly naïveté. (The sketches turned out well.) Beneath each drawing, I added captions: “Dumbstruck informant. Know-it-all informant. Fool. Malicious informant.”
They weren’t informants at all, of course, but it was too ridiculous for them to be gawking at us like that.
One of them peeked over my shoulder, and then the others followed. When they saw the captions, they left quickly, and we were rid of them.
At the meeting, the police commissioner, wearing his official sash, positioned himself near us. Believing the reactionaries’ tales, he seemed surprised at the calmness maintained by our friends.
It’s true that one of the four hall commissioners (all herculean figures) had graciously tucked a disruptive young bourgeois under his arm, like a kitten, before the troublemaker could stir any commotion. The other small bourgeois calmed down as if by magic.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 13
I appeared at the trial in Lyon for affiliation with the Internationale, which, as we know, no longer exists.
At the Lyon trial, as I watched Mr. Fabreguettes with his angular profile, his arm raised, the wide sleeve falling back, and his harsh speech, I thought of an engraving I often dreamed of as a child. It depicted the Grand Inquisitor, Thomas de Torquemada.
At my trial, I thought of Erasmus’s In Praise of Folly. The fools’ caps were absent, but the sound of the bells rang in my ears.
The jurors, dazed and bewildered by the prosecution’s argument, were told that if they didn’t condemn me, their shops wouldn’t be safe. The ludicrous idea of accusing me of having laughed on a doorstep; the young men who came to insult me, though some of them left calmer, perhaps moved by the Revolution that stirs in courtrooms—I remember all of it.
But it’s not me, gentlemen, whom you condemned; everyone knows I’m not trying to enrich myself. You condemned my elderly mother to death—and she died.
She will not be woken from beneath the earth.
***
Let me grant myself some justice. This accusation of having laughed is a mere pretense. They wanted to condemn me no other way, because ridicule kills a woman faster. Let’s set the record straight: it is my convictions that are being persecuted. Therefore, I have the right to include here the manifesto from Lyon, as I had my place at the trial of the anarchists, and I share all their ideas.
This will be justice, and once done, I will no longer concern myself with my trial.
MANIFESTO OF THE ANARCHISTS
What is anarchism? Who are the anarchists? Let us explain:
The anarchists, gentlemen, are citizens who, in a century where liberty of opinion is preached everywhere, have believed it their right and their duty to advocate for absolute liberty.
Yes, gentlemen, we are, across the world, a few thousand, perhaps a few million—for we have no merit other than saying out loud what the masses whisper in secret. We are a few million workers who demand absolute freedom, nothing but freedom, all of freedom!
We want liberty—that is, we demand for every human being the right and the means to do whatever they please; to satisfy all their needs completely, without any limits other than the natural impossibilities and the equally respectable needs of their neighbors.
We want freedom, and we believe its existence to be incompatible with the existence of any form of power, regardless of its origin or structure—whether it is elected or imposed, monarchic or republican, inspired by divine right or popular will, by the Holy Ampulla or universal suffrage.
History teaches us that all governments are alike and of equal worth. The best are the worst. More cynicism in some, more hypocrisy in others! At their core, they all employ the same methods, exhibit the same intolerance. Even the most apparently liberal governments keep, hidden in the dust of legislative arsenals, some convenient little law to suppress the Internationale, ready for use against troublesome opposition.
The problem, in the eyes of anarchists, does not lie in one form of government over another. It lies in the very idea of government itself, in the principle of authority.
In short, our ideal is the substitution, in human relations, of free agreements—perpetually revisable and dissolvable—for administrative and legal oversight, for imposed discipline.
Anarchists aim, therefore, to teach the people to live without government, just as they are beginning to live without God.
They will also learn to live without property owners. For the worst tyrant is not the one who imprisons you, but the one who starves you; not the one who grabs you by the collar, but the one who grabs you by the stomach.
There can be no freedom without equality! There is no freedom in a society where capital is monopolized in the hands of an ever-shrinking minority, and where nothing is equally distributed—not even public education, which is nevertheless funded by everyone’s money.
We believe that capital, the shared heritage of humanity, as it is the fruit of the collaboration of past and present generations, must be made available to everyone so that no one can be excluded from it. At the same time, no one should be allowed to hoard it at the expense of others.
In short, we seek equality—equality in fact, as a corollary, or rather, as the essential condition for liberty.
“To each according to their abilities, to each according to their needs.” That is what we earnestly and energetically desire; that is what will be because no statute of limitations can prevail against demands that are both legitimate and necessary.
This is why they wish to subject us to all forms of disgrace. Scoundrels that we are! We demand bread for all, education for all, work for all, and likewise independence and justice for all!
This manifesto was signed by Prince Kropotkin, Émile Gautier, Bordat, Bernard, and forty-three other defendants. Gautier was its author.
I have only one account of the conferences held in Lyon during the trial. I no longer remember which newspaper it was taken from. Here it is:
“It is reported from Lyon, January 19: Last night, in the Élysée Hall, Louise Michel gave a lecture in support of the families of anarchist prisoners. Kropotkin and Bernard were acclaimed as honorary presidents.
When she took the floor, Louise Michel first acknowledged that only force can transform society since force is used to destroy it.
In Lyon, she said, anarchists are in the dock. In England, they are members of the House of Commons.
She added that she brought an address signed by French refugees in London, protesting against the Lyon trial and declaring solidarity with the defendants and their theories.
But knowing she was being watched by the police, she destroyed the document to avoid compromising anyone.
Louise Michel elaborated at length on her ideas about the position of women in current society.
The president put to a vote a resolution calling for arms to defend against the bourgeoisie.
The resolution was adopted.
A man named Besson requested the expulsion of journalists.
Louise Michel protested, saying that freedom must be equal for all.
Another speaker proposed that the assembly express a wish for the acquittal of the anarchists.
The president replied that this was a matter for the judges, not the assembly. Such a wish, he said, could not be expressed without the consent of the defendants.
The session ended amidst cheers from the audience.”
At another conference, in the Perle Hall, I believe, someone attempted to introduce smoke behind the podium by breaking a window. Had we ignored it, calling it either a police trick or the work of fools, it might have driven a large portion of the crowd toward a narrow exit, causing accidents.
They were fools. Ashamed, they sent their apologies, which I read publicly without, of course, naming them.
Remember this, women who read me: We are not judged the same as men.
When men accuse other men, even in bad faith, they do not choose accusations so monstrously absurd that one wonders if they are even serious.
But when a woman refuses to be deceived by the sovereignty used to fool the people or by the hypocritical concessions used to fool women, this is how she is treated.
And a woman must have a thousand times more composure than men in the face of the most horrific events. She must not let a single word escape her that differs from her usual tone, even as sorrow pierces her heart.
For pity from friends or hatred from enemies could quickly consign her to some mental institution where, fully sane, she would be buried alive among madwomen—who perhaps were not mad when they entered.
Man, whatever his character, is the master; we are the intermediary being between him and the beast, as Proudhon classified us: housekeeper or courtesan. I admit, always reluctantly, that we are a separate caste, made so through the ages. When we show courage, it is seen as pathological; when we quickly assimilate certain knowledge, it is seen as pathological.
I have laughed at this all my life. Now, I no longer care, as all such errors will eventually fall away.
And yet, the sinister figure of old reactionary clichés envisions a future where men and women will walk through life together as good companions, hand in hand, no longer vying for supremacy, just as nations will no longer claim to be the greatest nation in the world. It is good to look forward to this.
Several weeks after the Lyon trial, I felt that I would have been complicit in cowardice had I not used the freedom I was inexplicably granted to call for a new and immense International, alive and standing from one end of the earth to the other, to replace the dead Internationale.
I said this openly and acted on it. They said nothing of it at my trial. It was agreed that I had laughed on a doorstep on a day when the people were demanding work and that my mother had begged me to wait until after her death to attend demonstrations.
While some reporters claimed to have spoken with me at a house where I was not, others reported seeing me enjoying myself at the Bois, where I also was not. I stayed with the families of my friends Vaughan and Meusy, from where I would, dressed as a man, visit my poor mother.
Under this disguise, I could have remained in Paris or taken my mother abroad.
I could even have continued my propaganda. How many times did I attend meetings from which women were excluded! So many times, during the time of the Commune, I went disguised as a National Guard or a soldier to places where no one ever suspected they were dealing with a woman!
When you read this, friends who gave me hospitality at that time as if I were a member of your family, remember well that I regretted causing you so much trouble. But I had to turn myself in before the trial; we must be unyielding, especially with ourselves. The lies were too shameful!
And you, Louise and Augustine, remember, my dear ones, how you felt it and said to me, “You are right!” I do not forget it. I know that you will always be like this.
If your brothers will need courage for the things they will witness, you will need it a hundred times more.
Today, where men might cry, women must keep their eyes dry.
And you, little ones, do you think I forget about you?
If Paul and Marius one day become what I believe they will, they too will need courage. May one as a poet, the other as a musician, follow their paths under the great sun, seeking where art rises, free from the shrouds of death.
And you, Marie and Marguerite, you too, my little ones, will join that great journey where, as humanity advances, women must not falter. So much the worse—and so much the better!
Returning to my trial: Several of our friends offered to defend me, but aside from the fact that each of us must explain ourselves, it was impossible for me to choose between those who had already defended our comrades as free individuals ought to be defended and Locamus, who in Nouméa defended the deportees summoned before the colony’s courts.
How many times we saw him pass by, his clients acquitted and he himself condemned for insults to the judiciary, walking off to prison in handcuffs! He insisted on this theatrical display, having it imposed on him to fully ridicule the system.
And Locamus would laugh as he passed, in such a way that you couldn’t help but laugh too.
He carried himself proudly, much like Lisbonne in his convict’s jacket—except that Locamus would shake his large curly head straight and firm, while Lisbonne, striking his crutch, would lift his head high beneath his mane. Both carried themselves like lions.
What complicates speaking in court when there are multiple defendants is that your words are closely watched to be turned into weapons for the prosecutor whenever possible. I hope I avoided that trap.
As for the young men disguised as lawyers—or perhaps newly minted ones—gathered like a Greek chorus to watch me and laugh, or engage in other antics, I hope that the three or four who ceased their insults did not join the ranks of those who mock the dead.
I hope they no longer view the world through a narrow lens and that the names of Vallès, Rigault, Vermorel, Millière, Delescluze, and so many others—who were also once students—sometimes come to their minds.
We are not tempted to play Don Quixote for the youth. Not every polishing of Mambrino’s helmet or fight against windmills is a way to avenge the dishonor of humanity—not just one, but all dishonors.
True vengeance is the Revolution, sowing liberty and peace across the earth.
When everything rises with vitality, one must take a stand: either pile into the rut with one’s caste or shake off the absurd boundaries of caste and take one’s place in the sunlight with the advancing human movement.
At Vallès’s funeral, it was said, there was an emotional crowd under black and red banners. Was that the whole revolutionary army? The vanguard? It was barely a battalion.
When the time comes—brought forward by cruel and foolish governments—it won’t be just a boulevard trembling under the march of humanity, but the entire earth.
Until then, the larger the river of blood flowing from the scaffold where ours are murdered, the more prisons overflow, the greater the misery, the heavier the tyranny—the sooner the hour will come, and the more numerous the fighters will be. How many outraged will join us, young people, when the red and black banners wave in the winds of anger!
What a tidal wave, my friends, when it all rises around the old wreckage! How meek those young men who call themselves students will become, those who limit their patriotism to the mud of Sedan!
We want the revenge of all Sedans, where despots and fools have dragged humanity, for all the peoples of the world.
The red banner, always a symbol of liberty, terrifies executioners because it is so crimson with our blood.
The black banner, soaked with the blood of those who want to live by working or die fighting, terrifies those who want to live off the labor of others.
Oh, fly above us, black and red banners; fly over our mourning and over our hope in the rising dawn!
If one were free in any country to raise their banner wherever and however they wished, the true alignment of the crowd would become clear—better than any vote. No one could stash a few men in their pocket as they do with handfuls of ballots. It would be a sure way to determine an untainted majority, a true majority of the people.
But we are only permitted to raise our banners over the dead. We are not in London.
This thought reminds me of Blanqui’s last lecture. The hall was draped in tricolored flags. The old fighter stood up to curse the colors of Sedan and Versailles, which were flown before him—symbols of surrender and slaughter.
That meeting was his last. The reactionary howls often drowned out his words, but just as often, the faint breath of the dying man’s chest, filled with the immense breath of the future, prevailed.
After that session, he took to his bed and never rose again.
It is not the crimson banner, glowing like a dawn under the sun, that they pursue. It is the awakening of liberty—past and present—that they hunt. It is the ancient communes of France, it is 1793, it is June, it is 1871, and above all, it is the coming Revolution that advances under this dawn. And we—this is what we defend.
These pages will struggle to pass through the gates of Saint-Lazare. But there is an article in the regulations that prevents them from being forgotten:
“Lawyers may receive sealed letters from prisoners.”
One of them understood that these Memoirs, being somewhat my testament, grant me the right to express my thoughts as they are.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 14
I resume my account.
Two years ago, on July 14—on the morning after, to be exact—I was taken to the Central Prison of Clermont. No good celebration without a morning after!
Women’s prisons are less harsh than men’s: I did not suffer from cold, hunger, or any of the vexations inflicted on our comrades.
My book on prisons will be called The Book of the Penal Colony. I need only gather its pages; there are many!
The first pages will be dedicated to those poor, brave ambulance women, sentenced to death and sent to Cayenne—a murderous climate—because they cared for the wounded of the Commune and, along the way, some from Versailles when they were abandoned. The wounded have no camp, and often the Versaillais found it convenient to abandon them. Well, it made shooting easier.
Victor Hugo obtained the pardon of these simple and courageous women: Retif and Marchais; Suétens, Papavoine, and Lachaise, sentenced to hard labor for the same actions, followed them. They must have told Hugo these women were monsters, but Versailles did not take long to show its true face.
The following chapters will belong to the comrades I met in prison, beginning with our own.
At Satory, women who were my friends and prisoners did not fear to embrace me, though I warned them that they were risking their lives, as I was about to face my own reckoning.
At Les Chantiers, in the great morgue of the living, under rags hung at night against the walls, it was the same. Thanks to those brave hearts; many, alas, are now dead. The first was Madame Dereure; already sick, she could not survive the harsh trials she endured. In a defeated Paris, before the victors, the colors of the Commune followed her coffin.
Others, surely, have also died, whom we have not seen again.
How many prisons! I said it somewhere in this account. Oh yes, how many prisons! From Bastion 37 to New Caledonia, passing through Satory, Les Chantiers, La Rochelle, Caledonia, Clermont, Saint-Lazare…
When my book on prisons is published, the ten years and all the sea that have already passed over the first pages will be followed by many other stories. Grass will have grown over many more unknown corpses. The idea will remain the same: the irresponsibility of human beings caught in abandonment, poverty, and ignorance.
For a long time, that pitiless and illogical phrase was found charming: “Let the murderers go first.” But are the murderers not the decrepit old states where the struggle for existence is so cruel that some constantly circle above others, demanding prey?
You only hear the cries of ravens and the beating of their wings over peoples lying on the ground. You know Hugo’s verses:
“Lazarus! Lazarus! Lazarus!
Rise!”
Everything is a trap, and the unfortunate are caught. Is it their fault, these unfortunates, if there is room for some only on the pavement or in the amphitheater? If others took to stealing to survive or to feed their children, while some throw away millions and the lives of thousands for their whims?
I cannot help but speak of these things with bitterness; everything weighs more heavily on women.
At Saint-Lazare, that general warehouse from which they depart in all directions—even toward freedom—one is well-placed to judge them.
But it is not by passing through for a few days; it is by staying for a long time that one sees clearly.
Then, one feels how many generous hearts beat beneath the shame that smothers them.
Yes, rise, unfortunate woman who has fought so long and now weeps over her disgrace; it is not you who are guilty.
Was it you who gave the scrofulous and bloated bourgeois their hunger for fresh flesh? Was it you who gave young women with nothing the idea of becoming commodities?
And the thieves—let’s see. When women are thrown into the streets, of course they will go where the man called their pimp—because he beats and exploits them—sends them.
They will go alone too—doesn’t one always, always go forward when one is lost?
There are also worker-thieves who kept scraps of fabric. Do the great couturiers send back their leftovers?
Others had made matches. Well! Their children were hungry.
Some deceived their husbands! Have their husbands never deceived them?
If people were allowed to choose their partners instead of pairing fortunes, this wouldn’t happen so often.
And others (most often the old ones), when starving and wanting to live just a little longer, insult a policeman to get bread in prison.
When I was in pretrial detention, I saw one of those old women who hadn’t eaten in so long that, after taking just a little broth, she collapsed as if drunk. A few days later, she died because her stomach could no longer adjust to any food.
In Clermont, in my cell, I saw no one, but I heard snippets of conversation. Here are a few fragments—those that convey the sadness at the heart of misery:
“You’re getting out tomorrow; you must be happy!”
“Not really! It’s too cold and too hungry out there.”
“But your mother has a good position.”
“She was fired because I’m in prison.”
“Where is she?”
“In the street!”
“Where will you go?”
“Big Chiffe sent for me to work the streets. I’ll give my wages to my mother and head right back here.”
“But you’ll end up here again, won’t you?”
“How could I not? There’s no work for those with torn-up certificates, and even less for numbered ones like us.”
Here are others:
“Where are you coming from?”
“Saint-Lazare, of course, since I’m from Paris.”
“What did you do?”
“How should I know? My pimp grabbed some loot; apparently, I’m an accomplice.”
“You didn’t know anything about it?”
“Do you think he tells me where he’s going to work?”
“Maybe he gave you something?”
“Him? Give me something? He’s more likely to take from me. He demands fifteen francs a day.”
“What does he need that for?”
“Ah, well, he has to pay a ‘friend’ who saw what he did. Otherwise, the friend would rat him out.”
“And how do you find him his fifteen francs?”
“I worked the windows. That’s better than the streets. You’ve got to live, after all! When I looked for work, shops turned me away because I wasn’t well-dressed. When I borrowed a dress once, it was another story. I looked too good, and then some client took me in. And that was that. I had to get a card and a pimp to go with it.”
“Where did you work the windows?”
“At Relingue’s. You know, the one who gets herself arrested to make room for her brothel in the penitentiaries.”
“Relingue! I’d rather be here than in her place. She makes too much off our poor carcasses.”
“And where else would I go? Prison grain only grows on the pavement.”
More still:
“You’re sad, aren’t you, Camuse?”
“It’s because I’m going back to my misery.”
“What is your misery?”
“The father of my children.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you leave him?”
“Because he’s the father of my children! Back then, the poor guy worked hard for the first ones. But men aren’t as tough as women when things get hard. When the bad wind blows, they lie down in the field.”
And after release, where could they go for refuge? The shelters made for women leaving prison cannot house them all—it’s like offering a cup to a cataract that never stops flowing.
You see, those of you who are honest, that the Revolution must address this, not by replacing bad things with other bad things, but by purifying them. It must not put the plague where it removes the cholera. It must cleanse.
If prison women seem horrifying, it’s society that disgusts me! Clean the cesspool first. When the space is clear under the sun, no one will sink into filth again.
Young girls with soft and pure voices, here are others your age with harsh and broken voices. They don’t live as you do—they drink to numb themselves, to forget that they live.
Saint-Lazare! Listen, young girls who have never left your mothers: here are children like you, sixteen years old. But these ones either have no mothers or their mothers have no time to watch over them.
The poor cannot keep their little ones near or take the time to mourn their dead.
They are pale, withered—protecting you from the assaults of those who, fools say, would throw themselves upon you if their hunger for fresh flesh were not sated on the daughters of the people.
They call that equality and justice!
Here’s a glimpse into one of the most terrible human miseries, so that the reader’s heart may swell not just with pity for one being but with revolt against social crimes.
Perhaps it is in the cell where one hears the most. Every cell opens onto some courtyard, and voices rise up. You only have to listen to the fragments of this horrific chorus of misery.
Listen: among the brothel owners, women are traded like horses or oxen among farmers. They are herds, and human livestock is the most profitable.
When clients in some provincial town find a woman too overworked or grow tired of her, the owner ensures she owes the house a debt she can never repay, making her a slave. Then, she is traded in every possible deal. The cattle must go where it will be most profitable for the traffickers.
For others, it’s recruitment. They arrive naïve from the countryside, or, if they’re Parisians and know that ogres hunger for fresh flesh, misery bends them. Then come the fake trappings—once they’re inside the den, they are paying six times the value to create a debt for them.
There is also recruitment: wretched old women find ways to get themselves imprisoned for a few months, and during that time, they recruit, luring in all the pretty girls who have ended up there. These girls no longer have to fear hunger; once they get out, they will “live the high life.”
Yes, they will “celebrate”—until it kills them! Their voices will turn into rasps, their bodies will fall to pieces. That is the high life—the high life of the bourgeois with an appetite.
Those on the street are the least miserable; those in brothels live lives so horrific that it even shocks those who thought they could no longer be shocked.
What I hear about this, I will write down, because it is so appalling, so shameful, that people must know!
But for now, it’s the streetwalkers with their quarter-hour tricks who hold the crown for tragic stories.
Will no one ever realize that this sustains all crimes? That once a woman is forced into this life, she numbs herself, taking money from fools who themselves will become criminals? Everyone must know this! So why does it continue?
If the great traders in the women’s markets, who travel across Europe making room for their business, were each tied to the end of a rope, I wouldn’t be the one to cut it.
And if a poor girl, who thought she was entering an honest household (and such places do exist), realizes where she truly is and finds herself unable to leave, and if she strangled one of the wretches keeping her there with her avenging hands, if she set fire to that cursed place—it would be better than waiting for the outcome of legal arguments on the matter. Because nothing will ever change as long as things remain the way they are.
Do the owls that cut off the legs of mice to keep them trapped ever stop behaving that way?
If the captive mouse, instead of letting out its little plaintive cry between an indifferent heaven and earth, tried to gnaw at the throat of the owl devouring it, all the first mice might perish. But eventually, fear would grip the greedy beast, and as every creature wants to live, it would finally start feeding on seeds rather than starve.
This is how human wretchedness must act; women must not waste their time demanding illusory rights (those who promise them such rights do not enjoy them themselves). Instead, they must take their place at the forefront of the struggle and simultaneously free themselves from prostitution—something no one but they themselves can achieve.
When they no longer wish to be the prey of appetite and greed, they will know that death is preferable to such a life, but they will not be foolish enough to die pointlessly.
Here’s what I hear as I write—a story of a transaction:
“There’s a guy who whistled at me at the end of Batignolles; he wanted to give me only twenty coins. I was hungry, and I had a pimp around because of the cops. I needed to pay him; otherwise, he’d beat me up. I refused.”
“What did you do with the forty coins from the drunk old man?”
“I gave twenty to our pimp and twenty to a little girl who was crying from hunger. She said they wouldn’t even give her bread on credit anymore; her whole family was starving. She said, ‘I haven’t had a sip all day. I can’t stand it when I’m not tipsy.’”
“Why didn’t you run away when they caught you?”
“I told you, I hadn’t eaten. Might as well be here. Damn it, might as well die!”
Yes, you are right, poor girls, so generous even in the abyss where you’ve fallen: it is better to die than to live such a life where you must drink to numb yourselves to the pain of existence.
I cannot believe in the necessity of humanity gorging itself on all forms of drunken indulgence. But there is a necessity for women, no matter who they are, not to be defiled by such vile brutalities.
Let us look forward, for from these tortures a new humanity will be born. It is this humanity that Ferré saluted at the stake of Satory, that the nihilists salute from the gallows of the Tsar, that the German socialists salute with their heads beneath the axe—as I salute it before life, which is more horrible than death.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 15
I come to the end.
Now that the black bird of the bleak field has sung for me, perhaps it is worthwhile to jot down a few lines as a study for those unaware of what happens when there is nothing left to fear, no further suffering possible, and when, beyond pain, one looks coldly at the writhing hatreds spewing venom and the scurrying stupidity bloated with envy.
In front of this heap of idiots, there is nothing left but the indifference of a ragpicker, occasionally turning over rags with a hook. There are no names, but every object bears its mark.
I have not yet found coarse cloth or sackcloth among the pile, but I have found silk and velvet dragged through the filth.
Have you noticed how some things stink? These nameless filths exude the stale odor of refuse!
If the enormous energy some people expend trying to soil me had been used for a reasonable cause, they could have been useful. How many precious qualities are wasted in the foolishness of this selfish society!
In New Caledonia, I saw, on a mound rising from the cyclones, a great fucus still slick with the waves that had nourished it. Two branches, cascading from its peak onto the sunlit slope, were already becoming a new vine. They clung awkwardly to the earth that would provide them with warmer nutrients, and their leaves, a less dark green, were already imbued with light.
How many beings, too, would be imbued with light in a different environment!
Meanwhile, how much hatred is hurled against prison walls, uselessly grinding teeth! You seek happiness to devour it, poor fools. Move along; happiness is nowhere to be found. I might have had it if I’d spent these two years near my mother, seeing her happy. But you can see there is no longer anything to fear; since she is dead, rest assured, I will never be happy again. So don’t trouble yourselves so much—your insults mean nothing to me.
One can understand why, amidst these terrible sorrows—my friend’s death and my mother’s—I quote friends recounting these sad days rather than recounting them myself. Courage has its limits; one surpasses them only when duty demands it.
I find in The Judiciary File by Odysse Barot the exact account of the arrest of Marie Ferré. I quote these pages, written under the still-vivid emotion of that horrible scene, as a preface to her death.
You remember the trial of Théophile Ferré, a member of the Commune, and his scornful impassivity before the firing squad at Satory, facing the twelve chassepots that would take his life. He awaited death with a smile, a cigar in his mouth, and his eyes unbound—everyone knows this.
But there is a detail that remains unknown, one that has not been written until now: the manner in which Ferré’s arrest was carried out and the means used to discover his hiding place.
All attempts to locate him had been fruitless. Perhaps they had arrested five or six pseudo-Ferrés, just as they had executed five or six false Billiorays and Vallès.
What was to be done? They turned toward the small house in Levallois-Perret, on Rue Fazilleau, where the former member of the Commune had lived with his parents.
― Obviously, he wasn’t there.
― Of course not! They knew perfectly well they had no chance of finding him there.
― Then why bother?
― How naive you are! Didn’t I tell you he lived with his family? And what use is a family if not to denounce and hand over its own?
They entered the small cottage surrounded by a garden on Rue Fazilleau somewhat brutally, as one might expect. Oh, how I hesitate to put this into words. The other day, I had business in Levallois and passed by that street. When I reached the house, its number suddenly came back to me, and I was forced to stop for a few minutes. Blood rushed to my head, sweat ran down my forehead, and the mere memory of what had happened there stirred waves of anger and rage within me.
Forgive this involuntary emotion, but this indignation, this anger, this rage—you are about to share them. I continue:
They entered. The father had left for his daily work, leaving only two women behind—the old mother and the young sister of the man they were looking for.
The latter, Mademoiselle Ferré, was in bed, gravely ill, consumed by a burning fever.
They turned their attention to Madame Ferré, bombarding her with questions and demanding she reveal her son’s hiding place. She insisted she did not know and added that, even if she did, no one could expect a mother to betray her own son.
They pressed her harder, alternating between gentleness and threats.
― Arrest me if you must, but I cannot tell you what I do not know. And surely, you will not have the cruelty to take me away from my sick daughter’s bedside.
At this thought, the poor woman trembled in every limb. One of the men allowed a smile to escape. A diabolical idea had just taken shape in his mind.
― Since you won’t tell us where your son is, we’ll take your daughter instead.
A cry of despair and anguish tore from Madame Ferré’s chest. Her prayers and tears were powerless. They began preparing to remove the sick girl from her bed, even at the risk of killing her.
― Be strong, Mother, said Mademoiselle Ferré. Don’t despair. I’ll be fine. They’ll have to let me go.
They were about to take her away.
Placed in the unbearable position of choosing between sending her son to his death or killing her daughter by letting them take her, overwhelmed with grief despite the pleading gestures of the heroic Marie, the unfortunate mother lost her composure. She hesitated.
― Stay silent, Mother! Stay silent! murmured the ill daughter.
They took her away.
But it was too much for the poor mother’s fragile mind. Madame Ferré collapsed. A fever overtook her, her reason clouded, and incoherent phrases escaped her lips. The executioners listened closely, waiting for any word that might serve as a clue.
In her delirium, the desperate mother repeatedly uttered the words: Rue Saint-Sauveur. That was all it took. While two men stayed behind to guard the Ferré household, the others hurried to finish their work. Rue Saint-Sauveur was surrounded and searched. Théophile Ferré was arrested. A few months later, he was executed.
Eight days after the horrific events on Rue Fazilleau, they returned the brave young woman her freedom. But they did not return her mother, who had gone mad and soon died in the Sainte-Anne asylum.
Marie was still standing ten years after these horrors. Those who had fathers or brothers in New Caledonia or in exile knew her tireless devotion and courage.
In London, exiles spoke to me of the few days she had spent there as though seeing her had brought back the memory of lost friends who perished in the slaughter. I think they loved her even more than I did. We no longer have her.
In Paris, where people so often move from place to place, those living at No. 27 Rue Condorcet, the former apartment of Madame Camille Bias, may still find a red-draped room shaped like a lantern.
When Madame Bias rented that apartment, Marie Ferré spoke to me at length about the red room: “It’s a true nest,” she said. “You’ll see how peaceful it is.”
Indeed, it was a nest—a nest of death.
In the night between Thursday and Friday, February 24, 1882, after a brief illness whose terrible end we had not foreseen, we lost her there.
I had been a little jealous that she hadn’t come to stay with me, but she said:
― I’ll be so comfortable there! In a few days, it will all be over.
It was over indeed! If there were a God, He would surely be a monster to strike such blows.
The bed was placed facing the door, with the head against the wall. For the two days that she lay there dead, someone across the way, unaware of what had happened, played the violin continuously. It pierced the heart.
That’s life in cities, where each house is a city unto itself.
It was in front of that bed that we placed her in her coffin, wrapped carefully in my large red shawl that she had loved.
At Théophile Ferré’s death, it was Madame Bias who, with poor Marie, buried the executed man as his mother would have done.
Opposite the Louvre department stores, there is a small shop selling woolens. During the deportation, my mother lived there for a long time with a relative for whom she always had a deep affection, before moving to her family’s home in Lagny.
At No. 24 Rue Polonceau, after my return, the moments of joy were brief and fleeting. With my mother and Marie near me, I almost felt afraid—happiness is such a fragile branch that it always breaks under the weight of rest.
Two old friends visited my mother daily, bringing her those little attentions so cherished by the elderly. My dear Marie stayed by her side during each visit. All of that is now gone.
At No. 45 Boulevard Ornano, on the fourth floor, she endured the long torture of two years without me before her death.
Her bed was placed parallel to the entry corridor, in the middle room.
Above the dresser hung a large portrait of me painted by Madame Jacqueline. How often her poor eyes must have lingered on it during those two years.
In her final moments, when speaking was difficult for her, I felt she was trying to convey that I should give it to Rochefort, who had kept it for her during those two years.
On sunny days, as long as we were able to make her believe I would only be in prison for one year, she often stayed by her window. It was there she had so often waited for me as I returned from my last rounds of lectures, where Madame Bias had stayed with her.
From July 14, 1884, we had to tell her the truth. She no longer sat by the window after that.
I don’t believe the pain inflicted on my poor elderly mother brought happiness to anyone.
No one in the world can change it now; the dead cannot be woken.
She died on January 3, 1885, at three minutes to five in the morning.
That morning, as I descended the staircase after her funeral, leaving her laid in her coffin, not yet nailed shut, I thought about her suffering over the past two years. I felt in my heart everything she had endured, poor mother! How happy she would have been to spend just a few days with me!
It was right to allow me to be with her at her death; for this reason, it would take little decency to grant me clemency over her corpse.
Let me stay until everyone leaves, or until my time here is finished. Until then, let me be.
And the cemeteries over there! Vroncourt, in the upper corner under the fir trees; Andeloncourt, Clefmont!
And the small, low, dark houses of the old uncles; Aunt Apolline’s sunken cottage; Uncle Georges’s house at the top of the hill!
And the schoolhouse. Who now hears the sound of the stream there?
Oh! Now more than ever, through the open window, I catch the scents of roses, straw, and hay cut in the summer sun, the acrid smell of niaoulis mingling with the sharp freshness of the waves.
Everything reappears, everything comes back to life—the dead and the things that have vanished. And now more than ever, I wish to see them again. They call to me, yet nothing remains of them—no more than the wind that passes.
Even if thought were a kind of atmosphere surrounding the body, wouldn’t it dissipate along with it?
What does it matter! We must see things through to the end; work numbs us, and pain drives us forward like a spur. Perhaps it is necessary to complete one’s journey.
Fragments found among my papers will speak better than I of the terrible chain of events since 1871. Everything is connected, deriving one from another, and all appear to me at once.
The first fragment I come across is dated November 28, 1871. It was at the Satory camp, glittering in the morning sun on the November snow, where the assassination of Ferré, my comrade-in-arms, took place. How I would have liked to stand there with him.
My mother was still strong then, relatively young. It would have been less cruel than the separation we endured two years ago.
Here is how a reactionary newspaper described Ferré’s heroic death:
The condemned are remarkably steadfast. Ferré, leaning against his post, throws his hat to the ground. A sergeant approaches to blindfold him; Ferré takes the blindfold and throws it onto his hat. The three condemned men remain alone. The three firing squads advance and fire. Rossel and Bourgeois fell instantly; as for Ferré, he remained standing for a moment before falling to his right side. The camp’s chief surgeon, M. Déjardin, rushed to the bodies. He signaled that Rossel was indeed dead and called for soldiers to deliver the coup de grâce to Ferré and Bourgeois. Finally, the procession began…
Before the third court-martial to which he was summoned in August, Ferré uttered the following words as his sole defense:
“As a member of the Commune, I am in the hands of its conquerors:
They want my head, let them take it.
I will never save my life through cowardice. I have lived free, and I intend to die the same way.
I add only this: Fortune is fickle. I entrust my memory and my vengeance to the future.”
(La Liberté, November 28, 1871)
The second piece is the facsimile of Ferré’s last letter to my dear Marie.
That letter reached me on May 24 of this year. I don’t need the envelope to know it came from you, my dear Avronsart.
I see, with this sad and proud farewell, our vigilance committee at 41 Chaussée Clignancourt.
― “All poets and savages!” Madame Meurice used to say.
It was true! How we loved each other in that group and how well we worked together!
So much so that we anxiously watched the clock, marking the hour to attend our clubs or those of the supporters of surrender and Trochu’s plan, to cast subversive ideas like sparks onto the ever-generous crowd, which refused to surrender.
It was quick work to disrupt those gatherings of quitters and bloodthirsty cowards.
They already sniffed the blood of the defeated, waiting for their time (the time of jackals). They wanted their prey dead or bound.
I believe I still have, with Marie’s letter, the last one sent to me from her cell in Versailles before I was made to leave for Arras, from where I was brought back, as I’ve recounted. On the morning of November 29, at the same time Marie was retrieving the body of the executed, we had the consolation of meeting.
I don’t think any search ever took these papers from me, but friends are reluctant to handle them. With so many of us dead or imprisoned, I respect their sadness and won’t press the issue.
I’ll only say that in this letter, Ferré, instead of pitying himself, gazed beyond the river of blood of ’71, toward Liberty rising on the distant horizon.
Where are you all now, my friends?
If this book reaches Burlot in the forests of Morvan or the old brave Louis Moreau, wherever he may be in the world, they too will remember.
I realize I am writing names of people who are still alive! I’ll stop, but the page will remain.
Here is Théophile Ferré’s last letter:
Cellular Prison of Versailles, No. 6
Tuesday, November 28, 1871, 5:30 a.m.
My dearest sister,
In a few moments, I will die. In my final moments, your memory will be with me. I ask you to claim my body and reunite it with that of our unfortunate mother. If you can, publish the time of my burial in the newspapers so that friends may accompany me. Of course, no religious ceremony—I die a materialist, as I lived.
Place a wreath of immortelles on our mother’s grave.
Try to heal my brother and comfort our father. Tell them both how much I loved them.
I embrace you a thousand times and thank you for the care you have always given me. Overcome your grief, and as you’ve often promised me, rise to the occasion.
As for me, I am happy to be done with my suffering. There is no need to mourn me.
Entirely yours,
Your devoted brother,
TH. FERRÉ
All my papers, clothes, and other belongings should be returned, except for the money held by the registry, which I leave to the less fortunate prisoners.
TH. FERRÉ
I feel I must share a few excerpts from newspapers of June 28, 1882, regarding Marie’s funeral:
Yesterday morning, at 9 a.m., the funeral of the courageous citizen Marie Ferré, sister of Théophile Ferré, executed by the bourgeois reaction for his participation in the Commune, took place.
Marie Ferré’s life was one of self-sacrifice and devotion to the cause for which her brother died.
With respectful admiration, a large number of friends accompanied this martyr of revolutionary faith to her final resting place.
The procession consisted of about a thousand people, including notable figures such as Henri Rochefort, Clovis Hugues, Hubertine Auclert, Camille Bias, Cadolle, and Louise Michel.
Before the body was taken from the house, bouquets of immortelles were distributed to those present.
Eight white rose wreaths and three red immortelle wreaths were placed on the coffin.
The three immortelle wreaths bore the following inscriptions:
To Marie Ferré, from the Social Studies Circle of the 18th Arrondissement.
To Marie Ferré, from the Free Thought Society of Levallois-Perret.
At 9:15 a.m., the procession set off for Levallois-Perret, where the Ferré family vault is located and where Marie’s brother was buried after his execution at Satory. The mourning procession was led by the father and brother of Marie Ferré, Madame Bias, and Louise Michel.
As the procession crossed Boulevard des Batignolles, Rue de Lévis, and Rue de Tocqueville on its way to the Porte d’Asnières, it swelled by several hundred people.
Several speeches were delivered by delegates from revolutionary groups, social study circles, free-thought societies, and the vigilance committee of the 18th arrondissement.
Citizen Edmond Chamolet quoted the poet:
“She was: Glass for lamentation, Steel for resistance. Despite the pains and the physical and moral tortures she endured, she remained calm in appearance, if not resigned, amidst the battles of life. She lived a life too active, a life of feverish intensity, and her frail and delicate nature was broken by the sorrows that slowly consumed her. Her strength failed her, and death has now taken her from us in the prime of her life. Farewell, Marie, rest beside your poor mother, beside your brother who died for liberty.”
“History,” said Jules Allix, “will forever associate the memory of Théophile Ferré with the great and sublime devotion of his sister, Marie, whose simple yet grand life we honor here. Frail and gentle like a woman, she was as strong as the bravest of men. Hail to you, Marie Ferré! Your memory will live on despite your efforts to hide yourself, and we, the tortured, the exiled, and the banished, now form your funeral cortege, until the day we glorify our martyrs who died to bring liberty to fruition.
The crowd gathered around your grave, dear citizen with a great heart, is a greater tribute to your life than any speech. Honor to you, Marie Ferré! May your example be followed so that, instead of martyrdom, we may one day see triumph. Long live the Republic! Long live the Revolution!”
“In ’71,” said Citizen Dereure, “Marie Ferré, who had risen from her sickbed to walk to prison, had her mother dead, her brother executed, her father and other brother imprisoned. Upon her release, alone among those bloody graves and prisons, she watched over her dead and the living with superhuman courage.”
A few words from Louise Michel and Émile Gautier concluded the somber ceremony.
“Citizens, we place the stone of this grave upon the very heart of the Revolution: Let us remember, let us remember!”
“You are right, Louise,” concluded Émile Gautier. “Let us remember! Let our memories revive, allowing us to glimpse the dawn of days where liberty, equality, and justice reign supreme.”
Upon Marie Ferré’s death, the revolutionary women of Lyon, part of the Louise Michel group, renamed themselves the Marie Ferré Group.
Thanks to those who are just and valiant.
Among the fragments from February 28, 1882, there are many touching pages written about the heroic and moving friend we have lost.
“When I last saw her upon my return from exile,” said Rochefort, “I retained an indelible memory of the young girl she had been, a memory now revived by her sudden death.
I still see her, gliding like a shadow in her black clothes along the corridor leading to the visiting room.
We often met in those kinds of compartments, like cellular omnibuses: Rossel, Ferré, and I. All three of us marked for death, we were lodged side by side on the ground floor of the prison, with two guards who, through our open doors, curiously fixed their anxious eyes on us.
In the visiting room, Mademoiselle Rossel, Mademoiselle Ferré, and my children shared a common unease.
I will never forget the look of sympathetic longing the two young girls gave my children when they learned I had only been sentenced to perpetual deportation to a fortified enclosure. Their gaze seemed to say: ‘Your father is merely destined to spend his days 6,500 leagues away, among cannibals. Aren’t you lucky!’
Like the sister of Delescluze, Ferré’s sister bravely fought against the bitterness of her grief before ultimately succumbing.”
The day when the clerical calendar, which the postman brings us every year, is replaced by the republican calendar, the name of this martyr will shine among the most memorable. And if civil baptism ever replaces religious baptism, it will be under the aegis of her memory and virtue that honest women will consecrate their children.
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
Part 2, Chapter 16
My mother was all I had left, and as strong as she was, she would have lived a long time if the crumbs of bread taken by a few starving children (and initially given to them) had not been so costly.
Alas! Bread is expensive under the Third Republic.
Here is how the funeral of my poor mother, which took place on January 5, 1885, was described:
AT THE FUNERAL HOME
As on great days of popular awakening, the working-class neighborhoods emptied their dark alleys. From all sides, the people came in masses—the real people, from the “dens” and the workshops.
In front of No. 45 Boulevard Ornano, the crowd was so large that all traffic had become impossible.
At precisely eleven o’clock—too precise, as thousands of citizens arrived in the half-hour after the departure—the coffin was placed on the hearse.
Before returning to Saint-Lazare, Louise Michel placed several mementos near her mother’s body: a photograph of herself leaning on a rock, framed in red velvet; a lock of her hair tied with a black ribbon and mingled with a bouquet of red immortelles she had brought back from the funeral of her friend Marie Ferré; a portrait of the latter; and a few flowers given to her mother in her final days.
Citizen Clémenceau came to offer his condolences to the family and to excuse himself for being unable to follow the procession.
Numerous wreaths were placed on the coffin and behind the hearse: To the Mother of Louise Michel, from L’Intransigeant; Free Thought; La Bataille, among others. Many bouquets of natural flowers were mixed in with the wreaths.
Louise Michel’s wreath, made of black pearls, bore only these words: To my mother!
THE PROCESSION
The procession began in the following order:
Immediately behind the hearse walked the closest relative of the deceased, M. Michel, an elderly man with white hair, accompanied by his two daughters, cousins of the prisoner.
Following them were Citizen Henri Rochefort, his eldest son, Vaughan, and the entire editorial staff of L’Intransigeant.
Next came the companions in struggle of the deceased citizen, those who followed her into exile and who continue the revolutionary fight through the press or public speaking. Notable figures included: Alphonse Humbert, Joffrin, Eudes, Vaillant, Granger, Lissagaray, Champy, Henri Maret, Lucipia, Odysse Barot, S. Pichon (municipal councilor of Paris), Antonio de la Calle (former member of the revolutionary government of Cartagena), Moïse (district councilor), Frédéric Cournet, Victor Simond, and Titard (of Le Radical), as well as many former deportees from the Ducos Peninsula and convicts from Nou Island.
Also present were Citizen Deneuvillers, a former exile of 1871 and correspondent for L’Intransigeant in Brussels; Citizen Théleni, representative of Le Radical des Alpes; Bariol, delegate of the Circle of Human Rights (Vaucluse); and P. Arnal, delegate of the Fraternal Association of Republicans from Basses-Alpes, Vaucluse, and Var. Many other citizens, delegates from groups in both Paris and the provinces, were present, though their names could not all be recorded.
Amid this procession of seasoned veterans of 1871 and battle-tested men was the fiery youth of newly formed revolutionary groups. Among them were a hundred anarchists who, as soon as the procession began, unfurled three red flags, one of which bore the inscription: The Revolutionary Sentinel of the 18th Arrondissement.
Behind them, spanning the entire width of the road, came an immense crowd, paying tribute to Louise Michel in this moment of sorrow, with their respect and gratitude.
ALONG THE ROUTE
Since the funeral of Blanqui, such an impressive display of popular solidarity had not been seen—grandiose and majestic as it was yesterday.
The procession moved toward the cemetery of Levallois-Perret, passing through Boulevards Ornano, Ney, Bessières, Berthier, and the Porte de Courcelles.
The embankments of the ramparts were lined with numerous spectators, who stood tiered along the slopes. On the opposite side, walls, rooftops, and windows were equally crowded with onlookers.
From every street leading onto the strategic road, a fresh wave of workers and the destitute respectfully lined the route of the procession or joined it.
The police were not visible, which allowed calm to prevail, with no disturbances occurring. A simple order was maintained by two officers under the supervision of a sub-brigadier.
However, extraordinary measures had been taken to mobilize armed forces against the demonstrators if necessary. The Republican Guard was stationed on Rue Ordener, and peacekeepers were positioned in the barracks along the entire route. At the Pépinière barracks courtyard, Place Saint-Augustin, a battalion of infantry, fully equipped with backpacks, stood ready to march.
At Porte Ornano, the procession had grown to over twelve thousand people.
From time to time, powerful cries of “Vive la Commune!” or “Vive la Révolution sociale!” erupted from the immense crowd.
Near the railway bridge of the Western Line, two cuirassiers carrying dispatches appeared. Since such movements of official messengers rarely bring good tidings, the cries of “Vive la Révolution!” grew even louder. The two riders quickly retreated after completing their task.
On Boulevard Berthier, near Bastion 49, about twenty police officers stood commanded by the peace officer of the 17th arrondissement, Florentin—the same who recently received a medal for protecting the informant provocateur Pottery.
Florentin, perhaps aiming to make a name for himself and earn more medals or promotions, intercepted the boulevard as the hearse passed by, ordering the removal of the red flags.
Deafening cries of “Vive la Révolution!” and “Vive la Commune!” greeted his demand. The demonstrators, guarding the flags closely, seemed to challenge the defender of informers.
Citizen Henri Rochefort approached Florentin, saying:
― “Your actions amount to outright provocation. Until now, everything has proceeded in perfect order. Your intervention is entirely misplaced.”
Florentin, visibly intimidated, replied:
― “I have received formal orders from M. Caubet to prevent the display of red flags.”
Rochefort countered:
― “These red flags you speak of are the banners of societies with every right to choose their colors. There were also red banners behind Gambetta’s coffin, and no one dared prevent their display.”
These words, coupled with the firm stance of the gathered citizens, caused Florentin to rethink. He immediately softened and even took the lead of the procession with his twenty-five officers, marching ahead of the hearse.
But when the police are not harsh, they often attempt treachery, as was the case yesterday.
At Porte d’Asnières, as soon as the hearse passed through the customs gate, the officers attempted to quickly close the gates to separate the procession and prevent the display of red flags.
However, they underestimated the resolve of the revolutionaries. The gates gave way under the pressure of the crowd. A few carriages entering Paris even avoided inspection due to the incident.
A final notable moment occurred as the procession passed alongside the belt railway line. A train went by, and recognizing the funeral of Louise Michel’s mother, many passengers leaned out of the windows, waving their hats and handkerchiefs.
This is how the procession reached Levallois-Perret.
AT THE CEMETERY
The small town of Levallois-Perret was transformed by revolutionary fervor. It had been a long time since such a crowd had been seen there. Numerous carriages stood near the cemetery’s entrance, and all the townspeople lined the path where the procession was to pass.
The small cemetery had been meticulously prepared. Its gates were wide open, and many citizens, eager to witness the event, had already gathered around the selected burial site.
This was the grave of Ferré, executed at Satory by the Versailles forces. He lies buried there alongside his sister, Marie Ferré, who was Louise Michel’s close friend and devoted companion.
The monument is modest, surrounded by a railing and covered with a large slab. A standing stone bears the names of the martyr and his sister.
The bell tolled, signaling the arrival of the funeral procession. In an instant, the crowd flooded the burial ground. With great difficulty, the pallbearers managed to carry the body to the grave, and only by passing the wreaths hand-to-hand were they able to move them from the hearse to the coffin.
The red flags were unfurled, and the graves disappeared beneath the sea of people, who stood from the ground to the tops of the monuments.
The scene was strikingly grand and majestic.
THE SPEECHES
After a moment of silent reflection, Ernest Roche, one of our collaborators, was the first to speak. Here is a summary of his speech, frequently interrupted by the crowd’s approval:
**“Who are we, gathered here around the coffin of a simple and kind woman who never sought fame?
Why, in this moment, do we see such a convergence of republican and socialist perspectives, so diverse in their nuances?
What sentiment drives us all? What force brings us here? What communion of hearts inspires in each of us the same respect and indignation before this death?
Let me tell you.
There is a sacred flag above all others, one that the people raise only in solemn times, a flag that electrifies more than any brilliant fabric: the flag of our martyrs, of our heroes.
The corpse of Lucretia overthrew the Tarquins and founded the Roman Republic; the corpses of obscure men, struck down on February 23 by the soldiers of Louis-Philippe, brought about the fall of his throne; the body of Victor Noir shook the Empire and hastened its collapse.
The body of Louise Michel’s poor mother is our unifying force, for it awakens in each of our consciences the same horror toward those criminals who killed her.
Ah! Do not hide behind the age of your victim, tyrants! That cannot mitigate the heinousness of your crime.
Surely, it was not her you intended to harm—we know that well. Just as the Empire had no particular hatred for Victor Noir. What does it matter whether your ferocity strikes a modest, unknown figure or an illustrious one? The martyrdom with which you crown them suffices for our anger, as it suffices for their glory.
Poor women! Those who knew them know how indispensable they were to one another. The mother lived in the atmosphere of filial love that her daughter created around her. By taking that away, you killed her, and her death may lead to yet another victim.
After her, it will be Kropotkin’s turn, dying in the dungeons; then will come the others, less known but no less unfortunate.
And you expect us not to take hold of these bodies, not to rally around them in a shared resolve for legitimate defense against these thieves of billions who ruin our suffering nation, waiting to sell it to the highest bidder!
This is the pact of danger, vengeance, and justice we come to seal before the grave of Ferré, murdered by Versailles bullets, and before the coffin of this woman poisoned by grief.
On behalf of our friends and collaborators at L’Intransigeant, in whose name I speak, on behalf of those who fought alongside this valiant citizen, who shared her suffering in exile and her joy at returning, I express how deeply we are touched by the sorrow that afflicts our friend Louise Michel, and how much we wish to lighten its weight if friendship and esteem could offer any consolation for such a loss.”
Citizen Chabert then spoke:
“Here,” he said, “there is unanimity among socialists, as there will be on the day of battle when we all take the field, arms in hand.
We all agree on the goal; we differ only in our choice of means.
Already, the day of social demands is dawning, for the bourgeois opportunists no longer stop at killing men; now they kill women.
Let us be united, and let it be known that if we come to power, we want no form of government.
The people must finally be the masters.
Any of our elected representatives who seek to deceive us and establish themselves as rulers must face one penalty: death.
The battle to come foreshadows our victory because the situation is such that all must take part in the action.
The opportunists bask in complacency, relying on parliamentarianism; but we are undermining that system, and we are on the verge of breaking through its doors.”**
Citizen Digeon then addressed the crowd:
“On behalf of anarchist groups, I come to honor the heroine of the Invalides demonstration.
Before this grave, let us forge an alliance of all revolutionaries—I agree—but on the foundation of absolute freedom, without hidden agendas.
I cannot conclude without expressing the hatred I feel toward the oppressors who exploit us. We are the dispossessed of the social order, which is why we eagerly await the advent of justice.”
Finally, Citizen Champy paid tribute to Louise Michel, sharing in her grief:
“The Revolution, of which she was an apostle, must bring the people equality, well-being, and the fulfillment of their inalienable rights, which they will achieve through their labor.”
Citizens Tortelier and Oddin also spoke.
The crowd then dispersed in complete calm—a result easily explained, as there were no police present.
Thank you, friends, all of you who were there.
Thus, I see you again, my friends, and I will always see you gathered around my poor departed mother, united without distinction of groups, in the same sorrow, in the same hope. After us, no one should have to endure such suffering—mothers separated from their daughters for two years of agony.
In the last letter she dictated to me, my mother wrote on November 27, 1884:
My dear daughter,
Do not worry about me; I am not doing worse. What pains me is knowing you are constantly worried.
I am sending you silks; work on your tapestries. You will make, on my behalf, the seascapes I spoke to you about.
Your last tapestry is not as good as the others—I can tell you are sad, and you shouldn’t be.
Do not make any more knits for me; I have enough. I need nothing more, and too much is already spent on me.
Above all, do not torment yourself. I embrace you with all my heart.
The poor woman lied when she said she was not doing worse—she was already bedridden and would not rise again.
As for the tapestries she mentions, the seascapes remain undone. The last one, “not as good as the others”—because I could feel her dying—depicted a great oak struck at its heart, with the axe still lodged in its wound, from which the sap flowed. This somber memory will be better cherished by the one for whom it was made, a Talleyrand-Périgord who, sooner or later, will follow the path taken by Kropotkin and other scions of feudal lords. These were great predators, it’s true, but cowards they were not.
I have kept the needles she sent me. They will no longer be used, but one day, I will obey her. I will create, on her behalf, the seascapes she promised.
Here are copies of several letters: some from when cholera was ravaging Paris and I had a double right to be closer to my mother and the city I never abandoned during times of trial; others from when my mother was nearing her last days, and I was asking to be brought to her.
These copies belong to the book of the dead, as they contained a dual agony: that of my mother and my own.
Those who imagined I concerned myself with trivial matters of sustenance considered me fortunate. I was treated well, but even if that had not been the case, could I have felt anything other than the sorrow of my poor mother?
Centrale de Clermont (Oise), No. 1327
November 21, 1884
To the Minister,
I have only my mother in this world. If I could raise my voice, even my cruelest enemies would ask for my immediate transfer to Paris, given the present circumstances, since at any moment she may be doubly lost to me.
I ask for neither visits nor letters in the prison where I might be placed. I would not need any privileges, but I would be in Paris, breathing the same air, and my mother would know I am there. This is a happiness she can experience while alive, not after death.
Please accept the assurance of my respect,
Louise Michel
Centrale de Clermont (Oise), No. 1327
Sunday, November 15, 1884 (personal)
To the President of the Republic,
Here is the truth: If no human heart can understand it, let this truth be my witness.
For eighteen months, I have not read a single line of a newspaper. But through the circular wall that separates us from the promenade, a fragment of a phrase reached me: Cholera is in Paris. That was long ago; no denials can convince me otherwise.
Since no one remembers that I have my place in such circumstances, even if it were in a dungeon underground, I address you: If I am treated as a state criminal, let it be remembered that I came willingly to submit myself to the hands of justice, and let me be treated with the same respect in return.
Louise Michel
Other fragments of letters where I requested to be near my mother:
“I will be just as loyal in offering, in exchange for an extraction or a stay in another prison—be it in Paris, near my mother—to return to New Caledonia once she is no longer here. I was useful there once and could be again by founding schools among the tribes.”
I lack the beginning of this letter; it was likely addressed to the Minister of the Interior.
Another fragment:
“I have not received a reply and probably never will.
Yet who knows if, in the times to come, one of your grandsons, finding himself in the same situation, might not regret that you did not answer me.”
This is not a political question but the question of all mothers, for I will unfortunately not be the last prisoner.
Let these fragments offer a glimpse of what I have endured.
For a long time, I received no reply; eventually, I was transferred to Saint-Lazare. If I had been brought there sooner, my mother, with her strong nature that always revived with each visit, might not have died.
However, I was treated well, as I was allowed to remain with her until the end. Having arranged her as she liked, I left the house forever.
She no longer suffered. Justice must be done for all, especially for the humble.
The officers, instead of tormenting me, helped us gently move my mother from one bed to another whenever she wished. She thanked them, and I remember that well.
They are not among those who involve themselves in politics, nor do I believe they were among those who struck down the people at Père-Lachaise on May 24 of that same year.
And who, if not the horrific machinery of old laws, is accountable for the conditions imposed upon the children of the people? They are not born with bread in their cradles.
Let the government, which acted well toward me by allowing me to stay with my dying mother, not tarnish this generosity with a pardon after her death.
What have I done more than others to deserve this constant revisiting of my case?
A pardon! On the anniversary of July 14, when two years ago I was taken from Paris, where my mother believed I remained for a whole year!
What have I done to those who think I could accept it?
A woman is so insignificant that both enemies and friends are eager to humiliate her, even though they know equally well that she will not falter.
In Russia, in Germany, where they fight the old wild beasts, the struggle is fiercer and therefore cleaner; they scorn to sully revolutionaries. The rope and the block are there—I prefer that.
A short note about my mother’s life: Those who knew her know how simple and kind she was, without lacking intelligence or even a certain wit in conversation.
My grandmother often told me about all the hardships my mother endured courageously. What I saw was her boundless devotion and the terrible pains she endured from 1870 to 1885.
I knew I loved her, but I never realized the vastness of that love until her life was shattered by death.
My grandmother, Marguerite Michel, was widowed with six children. My mother was raised at the Château de Vroncourt. She often recounted her fearful childhood, displaced from her nest, but how much she loved those who raised her with their own sons and daughter.
Perhaps one day I will recount her modest, hard-working life.
She helped conceal their dwindling means and eased the sadness of the deaths that struck widely around them.
I am what they call illegitimate, but those who gave me the bitter gift of life were free and loved each other. None of the sordid stories about my birth are true or can tarnish my mother.
Never have I seen a more honest woman.
Never have I seen more restraint and delicacy, nor greater courage—for she never complained, though her life was one of suffering.
Two days before her death, she said to me: “I was so unhappy not to see you anymore and to cost our friends so much.” This was the only time she spoke with such sadness, her voice, now only a whisper, regaining a hint of a lament.
Our friends often noted how witty and articulate my mother was in her simplicity. Only I truly know how kind she was, despite her efforts to hide it. She often liked to appear brusque and laughed about it like a child.
Anonymous enemies had threatened me, trying to disrupt her final moments by claiming her paralysis was contagious. They failed, though public credulity, especially after cholera epidemics, makes anything possible. These vipers could not succeed.
I envy the peace of those who could be troubled by such things; I feel them no longer.
The world’s venom can fall upon me without my noticing. It is but a few drops in the ocean through which I have passed.
Oh, my beloved dead! I began this book with you, when one of you still lived; I finish it with you, bowed over the earth where you now sleep.
Those who love me and loved you have preserved my place among them.
Both gone now! Yes, the hearthstone is overturned.
Alone, in the room where friends arranged my mother’s bed and furniture as they had been in her life, a small bird slipped between the shutters and made its nest on the window.
So much the better! The space feels less abandoned. Her old furniture, which seemed almost a part of her clothing, now bears the flutter of innocent wings.
It is they who hear the chime of the old clock that marked her death.
Farewell, my beloved!
Myriam! Let your name and hers close this book, along with yours, Revolution!
The Memoirs of Louise Michel
APPENDIX
FIRST TRIAL: THE COMMUNE
REPORT FROM Gazette des Tribunaux
SIXTH WAR COUNCIL (held in Versailles)
PRESIDED BY M. DELAPORTE, COLONEL OF THE 12TH CAVALRY
Session of December 16, 1871
The Commune, lacking sufficient devoted men within the National Guard for its defense, created children’s companies under the name “Pupils of the Commune.” It even sought to organize a battalion of Amazons. Although this corps was never officially constituted, women were seen wearing military attire—sometimes more fanciful than practical—bearing rifles on their shoulders as they marched ahead of battalions heading to the barricades.
Among those who exerted significant influence in certain neighborhoods was Louise Michel, a former schoolteacher from Batignolles, who demonstrated unwavering dedication to the insurrectionary government.
Louise Michel is thirty-six years old: petite, dark-haired, with a very prominent forehead abruptly sloping backward, a sharp nose, and a protruding lower face. Her features convey extreme severity. She is entirely dressed in black. Her fervor remains as strong as it was in the early days of her captivity. When brought before the council, she abruptly raises her veil and stares fixedly at her judges.
M. Captain Dailly occupies the seat of the public prosecutor.
Mᵉ Haussmann, appointed by the court, assists the accused, although she has declared her refusal of any lawyer’s support.
M. Clerk Duplan reads the following report:
BEGINNING OF THE REPORT
It was in 1870, on the occasion of Victor Noir’s death, that Louise Michel first began expressing her revolutionary ideas.
An obscure schoolteacher with almost no students, we were unable to determine her precise connections or the role she played in the events leading up to the monstrous crime that horrified our unfortunate nation.
It is unnecessary to recount in full the incidents of March 18. As the starting point for the accusations, we will limit ourselves to outlining Louise Michel’s role in the bloody drama at Montmartre and Rue des Rosiers.
A participant in the arrest of the unfortunate generals Lecomte and Clément Thomas, she feared the two victims might escape. “Don’t let them go!” she cried with all her might to the miscreants surrounding them.
Later, when the murders had been carried out and she stood, so to speak, before the mutilated corpses, she expressed her delight at the spilled blood and boldly proclaimed, “It was well done.” Radiant and satisfied with the day’s events, she then headed to Belleville and La Villette to ensure that “those neighborhoods remained armed.”
On the 19th, she returned home after discarding her federal uniform, which could incriminate her. She reportedly felt compelled to discuss the events with her concierge, exclaiming, “Ah! If Clémenceau had arrived a little earlier at Rue des Rosiers, the generals wouldn’t have been executed, as he would have opposed it, being aligned with the Versaillais.”
ORGANIZING THE RESISTANCE
Declaring, “The hour of the people’s rise has come,” Paris, under the Commune’s control, announced itself in defiance of foreign forces and vagabonds who had gathered from all corners of the world.
As secretary of the so-called “Society for the Moralization of Women Workers through Labor,” Louise Michel organized the infamous Central Committee of the Women’s Union, as well as vigilance committees tasked with recruiting nurses and, at the final moment, workers for the barricades—perhaps even arsonists.
A copy of a manifesto found at the 10th arrondissement’s town hall reveals her role in these committees during the final days of the struggle. The text is reproduced here verbatim:
MANIFESTO TEXT
“In the name of the social revolution we acclaim, in the name of workers’ rights, equality, and justice, the Union of Women for the Defense of Paris and Care for the Wounded condemns with all its might the shameful proclamation addressed to the women of Paris, posted two days ago by a group of reactionaries.
“This proclamation urges the women of Paris to appeal to Versailles for generosity and demand peace at any cost.
“No! It is not peace but total war that Parisian working women demand today.
“Reconciliation would now be treason—a denial of all the workers’ aspirations that hail absolute social renewal: the obliteration of current legal and social structures, the abolition of all privileges and exploitation, the replacement of capital’s rule by that of labor—in short, the emancipation of workers by their own hands!
“Six months of suffering and betrayal during the siege, six weeks of titanic struggle against allied exploiters, and the rivers of blood spilled for liberty’s cause are our badges of glory and vengeance!
“The current struggle can only end with the triumph of the people’s cause. Paris will not retreat; it carries the banner of the future. The ultimate hour has come! Workers to the front! Down with the oppressors! Act boldly! With energy!
“The tree of liberty grows, watered by the blood of its enemies!
“United and resolute, enlightened by the social crises that have brought us to this point, convinced that the Commune—representing international and revolutionary principles—is the seed of social revolution, the women of Paris will prove to France and the world that they too, in moments of supreme danger, will shed their blood and give their lives, alongside their brothers, for the defense and victory of the Commune, the people’s cause! Victorious, workers of all genders, united in solidarity through one final effort, will… [the sentence remains unfinished].
Long live the universal republic! Long live the Commune!”
LOUISE MICHEL’S OTHER ACTIVITIES
Holding numerous roles, she directed a school at 24 Rue Oudot. There, during her rare moments of leisure, she preached free-thinking doctrines and had her young students sing poems she had composed, including a song titled The Avengers.
REPORT FROM THE TRIBUNAL
SIXTH WAR COUNCIL (held in Versailles)
PRESIDED BY M. DELAPORTE, COLONEL OF THE 12TH CAVALRY
Session of December 16, 1871
LOUISE MICHEL’S ACTIVITIES
As president of the Revolution Club, held at Saint-Bernard Church, Louise Michel was responsible for the resolutions passed during the session on May 18 (21 Floréal, Year LXXIX), which included:
• The abolition of the judiciary and the destruction of legal codes, to be replaced by a commission of justice.
• The suppression of religion, the immediate arrest of priests, and the sale of their property, along with the assets of fugitives and traitors who supported the Versaillais.
• The execution of a significant hostage every 24 hours until the release and arrival in Paris of Citizen Blanqui, elected as a member of the Commune.
For this “ardent soul,” as described by a fanciful account in the case file, it was not enough to incite the mob, applaud assassinations, corrupt children, preach fratricidal conflict, and push for all manner of crimes. She felt compelled to lead by example and take direct action.
Thus, she could be found in Issy, Clamart, and Montmartre, fighting on the front lines, firing shots, or rallying fleeing combatants.
The newspaper Cri du Peuple confirmed her involvement in its April 14 issue:
“Citizen Louise Michel, who fought valiantly at Moulineaux, was injured at Fort Issy.”
Fortunately for her, the heroine of Jules Vallès emerged from this bold affair with nothing more than a sprain.
MOTIVES BEHIND LOUISE MICHEL’S ACTIONS
What drove Louise Michel down the fateful path of politics and revolution? Pride, undoubtedly.
An illegitimate child raised out of charity, instead of thanking Providence for providing her with an excellent education and the means to live happily with her mother, she allowed herself to be overtaken by an exalted imagination and irascible nature. After breaking ties with her benefactors, she ventured to Paris in pursuit of adventure.
At that time, the winds of revolution were blowing: Victor Noir had just been killed. It was the perfect moment for Louise Michel to step into the spotlight. However, the role of a mere participant repelled her; her name had to stand out, take center stage in proclamations and misleading advertisements.
LEGAL QUALIFICATION OF HER ACTIONS
Now, we assign the legal qualifications to the acts committed by Louise Michel during the catastrophic crisis France has just endured, through to her participation in the blasphemous battle fought amidst the graves of Montmartre Cemetery.
1. Complicity in the arrest and subsequent fate of Generals Lecomte and Clément Thomas. She knowingly supported those who carried out the arrest, which was followed by physical torture and the execution of the two generals.
2. Collaboration with Commune members. She was intimately connected with them, aware of their plans, aiding them wholeheartedly, and often exceeding their zeal. She even proposed to go to Versailles and assassinate the President of the Republic to intimidate the Assembly and end the struggle.
3. Incitement of mob passions. She preached relentless war and incited the death of hostages with her machinations.
CRIMES CHARGED
Based on these actions, Louise Michel was charged with:
1. Attempting to overthrow the government.
2. Inciting civil war by encouraging citizens to take up arms against each other.
3. Bearing visible arms and wearing a military uniform during an insurrection, and using said arms.
4. Falsification of private documents.
5. Using falsified documents.
6. Complicity in the execution of individuals held as hostages by the Commune.
7. Complicity in illegal arrests, followed by torture and death, by knowingly supporting the perpetrators.
These acts are punishable under Articles 87, 91, 150, 151, 59, 60, 302, 341, and 344 of the Penal Code, and Article 5 of the May 24, 1834 law.
THE ACCUSED’S TESTIMONY
President: “You have heard the charges against you. What do you have to say in your defense?”
Louise Michel:
“I do not wish to defend myself, nor do I wish to be defended. I belong entirely to the social revolution, and I accept full responsibility for all my actions. I accept it completely and without reservation.
“You accuse me of participating in the assassination of the generals? I would answer yes, if I had been at Montmartre when they ordered the soldiers to fire on the people. I would not have hesitated to shoot myself at those who gave such orders. But once they were prisoners, I do not understand why they were executed; I consider it an act of cowardice.
“As for the burning of Paris, yes, I participated in it. I sought to erect a barrier of flames against the Versaillais invaders. I had no accomplices; I acted on my own initiative.
“I am also accused of being complicit with the Commune! Indeed, I am! The Commune sought above all the social revolution, which is my dearest wish. Moreover, I am proud to have been one of its promoters.
“Let it be known that the Commune had no part in the assassinations and arson attributed to it. Having attended every session at the Hôtel de Ville, I declare that such matters were never discussed.
“If you seek the true culprits, they are the police agents. Perhaps one day the truth will emerge about these events, for which it is now convenient to blame all supporters of the social revolution.”
Q: One day, did you propose to Ferré to invade the Assembly and make sacrifices?
A: Yes, I proposed it to Ferré. I wanted two victims: M. Thiers and myself. I had already sacrificed my life and was determined to strike him.
Q: In a proclamation, did you say that an hostage should be executed every 24 hours?
A: No, I only wanted to threaten. But why should I defend myself? As I have already declared, I refuse to do so. You are men judging me, standing before me openly. You are men, and I am merely a woman, and yet I look you in the face. I know that nothing I say will change your sentence. So, just one final word before I sit down: we have never sought anything but the triumph of the great principles of the Revolution. I swear this by the martyrs who fell at the field of Satory, by our martyrs whom I still acclaim here with pride, and who, one day, will surely find an avenger. Once again, I belong to you. Do with me what you will. Take my life if you want it; I am not a woman who will dispute it with you for a single moment.
Q: You claim not to have approved of the generals’ assassination, yet it is said that, when you were informed, you exclaimed: “They were shot, and it’s well done.”
A: Yes, I said that; I admit it. (I even recall saying it in the presence of Citizens Le Moussu and Ferré.)
Q: So, did you approve of the assassination?
A: Allow me to explain: that statement was not proof of approval. The words I spoke were meant to avoid halting the revolutionary momentum.
Q: You also wrote for newspapers, such as Le Cri du Peuple, correct?
A: Yes, I do not deny it.
Q: These newspapers called daily for the confiscation of church property and other revolutionary measures. Were those your opinions?
A: Indeed, they were. But note well: we never intended to take these goods for ourselves. Our aim was solely to give them to the people for their welfare.
Q: Did you call for the abolition of the judiciary?
A: Yes.
Q: You admit to having wanted to assassinate M. Thiers?
A: Absolutely… I have already said it, and I repeat it.
Q: It seems you wore various costumes during the Commune?
A: I dressed as I usually did, only adding a red belt over my clothes.
Q: Did you wear men’s clothing at times?
A: Only once—on March 18. I dressed as a National Guard to avoid drawing attention.
Few witnesses were called, as the facts attributed to Louise Michel were not contested by her.
First witness: Mme Poulain, merchant.
Q: You knew the accused? Do you know her political beliefs?
A: Yes, Mr. President. She did not hide them. She was very outspoken and prominent in the clubs, and she also wrote for newspapers.
Q: Did you hear her say regarding the assassination of the generals: “It’s well done”?
A: Yes, Mr. President.
Louise Michel: I have already admitted to this; there is no need for witnesses to confirm it.
Second witness: Mme Botin, painter.
Q: Did Louise Michel denounce your brother to force him into serving with the National Guard?
A: Yes, Mr. President.
Louise Michel: The witness had a brother. I believed him to be brave and wanted him to serve the Commune.
Q: You saw the accused in a carriage, saluting the guards like a queen, as you put it?
A: Yes, Mr. President.
Louise Michel: That cannot be true, for I could not wish to imitate those queens I despise and would like to see all beheaded like Marie Antoinette. The truth is that I simply got into the carriage because I was suffering from a sprain caused by a fall at Issy.
Third witness: Mme Pompon, concierge, repeated rumors about the accused. She was known to be very outspoken.
Fourth witness: Cécile Denéziat, unemployed, knew the accused well.
Q: Did you see her dressed as a National Guard?
A: Yes, once, around March 17.
Q: Was she carrying a rifle?
A: I said so, but I can’t clearly recall.
Q: You saw her riding in a carriage among National Guards?
A: Yes, Mr. President, though I don’t recall the details.
Q: Did you say she was at the forefront when the generals Clément Thomas and Lecomte were assassinated?
A: I only repeated what was said around me.
The public prosecutor, Captain Dailly, requested that the accused be removed from society, describing her as a continuous danger. He dropped charges on all counts except for carrying visible or concealed weapons during an insurrection.
Defense attorney Haussman: I defer to the wisdom of the council, given the accused’s explicit refusal to be defended.
Q: Do you have anything to say in your defense?
Louise Michel: What I demand of you, who claim to be a council of war and stand before me as judges, is the field of Satory, where our brothers have already fallen. You are told to remove me from society, and I agree. Since every heart that beats for liberty is rewarded only with lead, I ask for my share! If you let me live, I will not cease calling for vengeance and denouncing the murderers of the pardon commission…
President: I cannot allow you to continue in this tone.
Louise Michel: I have finished… If you are not cowards, kill me…
After these words, which caused a deep stir in the courtroom, the council deliberated. Moments later, they returned and unanimously sentenced Louise Michel to deportation to a fortified enclosure.
When the clerk informed her she had 24 hours to appeal, she exclaimed: “No! There is no appeal; but I would prefer death!”
Observations by Louise Michel:
1. I was not raised by charity but by my grandparents, who believed it just to do so. I left Vroncourt only after their death to prepare for my teaching certification, believing I could then support my mother.
2. The number of my students in Montmartre was 150, verified by the mayor’s office during the siege.
3. Contrary to the Gazette des Tribunaux’s description, I am more tall than short. In these times, it is important to be seen for who you truly are.
Second Trial: Blanqui’s Anniversary
EXTRACT FROM L’Intransigeant, January 7, 1882
Correctional Police
The first accused called was Louise Michel. The valiant citizen was very calm. She responded to the president’s questions in her slow voice, speaking with great precision.
President Puget: You are charged with insulting the officers.
Louise Michel: It would be more appropriate for us to complain about their brutality and insults because we were very calm. Here is what happened, which perhaps explains my presence here:
When I arrived at the police station, I saw several officers downstairs beating a man violently. Not wanting to address these overly excited officers, I went upstairs and found two calmer officers, to whom I said, “Go downstairs quickly; they’re killing someone down there.”
President: This account contradicts the testimonies of the witnesses we are about to hear.
Louise Michel: What I have said is the truth. Besides, I’ve admitted to far worse things than this.
The first witness, a constable named Conar, stated that upon arriving at the station, he found two women, including Louise Michel. He claimed that she said, “You are murderers and cowards.”
Louise Michel: That is false!
The officer maintained his version of events.
Louise Michel repeated that she had told the truth and could say no other.
Despite the improbability of the officer’s testimony, the court, citing Article 224 of the Penal Code, sentenced Louise Michel to 15 days in prison.
NOTE
I cite L’Intransigeant not to present a more favorable account but because the trial does not appear in La Gazette des Tribunaux.
Our friends are right to find the words attributed to me implausible. I said, “They’re killing someone here,” not the slang phrase ascribed to me—feignants (cowards) is not in my vocabulary.
THIRD TRIAL
The Invalides Esplanade Protest
EXTRACT FROM La Gazette des Tribunaux
Court of Assizes of the Seine
Presided by M. Ramé
Hearing of June 21, 1883
I believe it unnecessary to present the full indictment; here are the conclusions:
Accused: Louise Michel, Jean-Joseph-Émile Pouget, Eugène Mareuil.
Charges:
1. In March 1883, in Paris, acting as leaders and instigators of the looting, by an armed mob, of bread from the Augereau bakery.
2. Similarly, looting of bread from the Bouché bakery.
3. Similarly, looting of bread from the Moricet bakery.
INTERROGATION OF LOUISE MICHEL
Q: Have you been prosecuted before?
A: Yes, in 1871.
Q: That is irrelevant as those events were covered by the amnesty. Have you been convicted since?
A: I was sentenced to 15 days in prison for the Blanqui demonstration.
Q: Do you participate in all demonstrations?
A: Alas, yes! I am always with the downtrodden.
Q: Is that why you attended the Invalides Esplanade demonstration? What result did you expect?
A: Peaceful protests achieve nothing, but I expected the government to use its usual methods and suppress the demonstration with cannon fire. It would have been cowardly for me not to be there.
Q: Did you recruit participants? Did you know Pouget?
A: I had met Pouget at a few meetings.
Q: Pouget was your secretary and distributed brochures promoting your ideas in the provinces, gathering names of your supporters.
A: They were not really supporters, just people curious about our ideas.
Q: After the protest was dispersed, didn’t you initiate a smaller demonstration?
A: It wasn’t a demonstration but a cry for help from the workers that I wanted to make heard.
Q: You requested a black flag?
A: Yes, and someone handed me a scrap of black cloth.
Q: Who gave it to you?
A: A stranger.
Q: Black flags are not so easily found. Who prepared it?
A: No one, and if someone had, I would not name them.
Q: Did you leave the esplanade intending to lead a protest?
A: I simply joined the front of a group.
Q: Was your aim, by carrying a black flag through Paris, to procure bread for the workers?
A: No, but I wanted to show that they were starving. The black flag symbolizes strikes and famine.
The president instructed the usher to present a black flag, which Louise Michel identified as the one she carried on March 9.
Q: Why did you stop in front of Bouché’s bakery on Boulevard Saint-Germain?
A: I kept walking. The kids told me bread was being given out, but I paid no attention to the details.
Q: You claim the bread was handed out voluntarily?
A: Yes, sir. The kids said they were given bread and coins. I found it quite humiliating.
Q: What about the men armed with clubs? Were they given bread willingly?
A: We had no one armed with clubs among us. Those people are not on the defendants’ bench!
The trial proceeded with Louise Michel resolutely defending her actions as a cry for justice for the oppressed workers of Paris.
“Fifteen or twenty individuals broke off from the group to loot the shop, shouting, ‘Bread, work, or lead!’
Louise Michel: They weren’t with us. That’s a setup by the police.
President: In one of your interrogations, you said you didn’t consider it a crime to take bread.
Louise Michel: Yes, but I’ve never taken bread, nor will I, even if I were starving.
President: When you were arrested at Place Maubert, did you say to the police officer, ‘Don’t hurt me; we only want bread’?
Louise Michel: I didn’t say, ‘Don’t hurt me,’ but I might have said, ‘We only want bread; no harm will come to you.’
President: In the end, Mr. Bouché’s bakery was completely looted.
Louise Michel: I didn’t even see a bakery, nor do I know Mr. Bouché.
President: The shop juts out onto the street—it’s impossible to miss.
Louise Michel: I was thinking only of the misery around me, not of the bakeries.
President: Next, you arrived in front of Mr. Augereau’s shop?
Louise Michel: I don’t know Mr. Augereau.
President: Did you raise your flag in front of his shop?
Louise Michel: I might have raised and lowered it many times.
President: Did you say, ‘Go’?
Louise Michel: I may have said it, but I must have also said, ‘Let’s go’ or ‘Move forward’; I don’t remember.
President: How many people were in front of you?
Louise Michel: I don’t know.
President: In short, Mr. Augereau’s shop was completely looted.
Louise Michel: I don’t know about that, and I’m surprised Mr. Augereau is focused on such miseries. I’ve seen far worse looting and killing.
President: So it doesn’t concern you at all?
Louise Michel: No, not at all.
President: You then moved on to Boulevard Saint-Germain. Did you stop in front of Moricet’s shop?
Louise Michel: I don’t know, and I don’t understand why you’re asking me such questions.
President: Did you laugh in front of the shop?
Louise Michel: What could have made me laugh? The misery of those around me or the sad state of affairs that takes us back before 1789?
President: So you claim to have had no involvement in these events?
Louise Michel: Yes, sir.
President: But these three shopkeepers insist that the crowd acted on a signal.
Louise Michel: That’s absurd. For there to be a signal, it must be prearranged; so you’d have to claim that all of Paris knew I would raise or lower the flag in front of bakeries.
President: Then it was an instinctive popular movement?
Louise Michel: It was the work of some children. The reasonable people around me didn’t pay attention to it.
President: You left the demonstration at Place Maubert, leaving Pouget and Mareuil to be arrested by the police while they were protecting you. You disappeared.
Louise Michel: My friends insisted that I not let myself be arrested that day.
President: Were you aware of the distribution of the brochure To the Army by Pouget?
Louise Michel: At a time when the Orléans faction openly recruited against the Republic, I wanted to recruit for the Republic, and that brochure was distributed under my inspiration. It was a cry of despair!
President: Were you aware of the specific studies Pouget was conducting on incendiary materials?
Louise Michel: Everyone is interested in science nowadays. Everyone reads The Scientific Review and tries to improve the workers’ lot through it.
President: We’re not here to discuss theories. Were you aware of Pouget’s studies?
Louise Michel: I don’t concern myself with whether people read or don’t read scientific journals.
Witness Testimonies:
Jules Bouché, baker, Rue des Canettes: On March 9, around 1 p.m., about twenty people stormed my bakery. They were armed with lead-weighted canes, demanding ‘bread or work!’ I told them, ‘If you want bread, take it, but don’t break anything.’
President: Do you recognize the accused?
Bouché: No, sir.
President: Did you let them take the bread because you had no choice?
Bouché: There was nothing I could do; any resistance was impossible.
President: Were they children who entered your shop?
Bouché: No, sir, they were reasonable adults. (Laughter.)
Louise Michel: Those armed with lead-weighted canes were not part of our group. I know very well where they came from.
President: Where did they come from?
Louise Michel: From the police. (Laughter.)
Madame Augereau, baker, Rue du Four-Saint-Germain: In the afternoon of March 9, I saw Madame Louise Michel stop in front of my door. People shouted, ‘Bread! Bread!’ Men entered and stole bread and biscuits. They broke a plate and two panes of glass.
President: Were children the ones who looted your shop?
Augereau: Oh, there were more adults than children.
President: But where was Louise Michel while the looting happened?
Augereau: She was standing right in the middle of the street.
President: Did you give your bread willingly?
Augereau: Oh no, sir.
President: How many people were there?
Augereau: I can’t say, but there were many—it was a true looting.
Rosalie Augereau, daughter, Rue du Four-Saint-Germain: On March 9, we saw a group arrive, led by a woman with a black flag. She struck the ground with her flag, someone said, ‘Go!’ and the shop was stormed and everything was looted.
President (to Louise Michel): That’s the second witness who saw you in front of the shop.
Louise Michel: I can’t take these statements seriously. I cannot, in front of serious men, discuss such things. (Laughter.)
President (to the witness): Was it a woman’s voice that said, ‘Go!’?
Rosalie Augereau: Yes, sir.
President: Were there other women in the crowd?
Rosalie Augereau: I didn’t see any others.
Madame Moricet, baker, Boulevard Saint-Germain, 125: On March 9, the crowd gathered in front of my shop. At the front was Louise Michel. She stopped in front of my shop, struck the ground with her flag, and started laughing. They demanded bread or work! I began handing out bread, but soon they helped themselves and broke everything.
President (to Louise Michel): What do you think of this testimony? It seems clear.
Louise Michel: So clear that I’ve never seen anything like it. (Laughter.) How could I laugh? Madame completely imagined it.
Witness: I am here to say what I saw.
Louise Michel: You are free to say what you want, but I am free to say that you imagined it.
President (to the witness): Did you give your bread willingly?
Witness: No, sir, but they came with threatening gestures, shouting, ‘Work and bread!’
Louise Michel: Oh yes, they were so terrifying! I was so terrifying too! These ladies were completely delusional with fear; they looked at Louise Michel as if she were some kind of hydra.
Cornat, Peace Officer, 6th Arrondissement: On March 9, I learned that a mob was roaming the arrondissement, shouting seditious cries. I pursued them and caught up with them at Place Maubert. Louise Michel was leading the group, with Pouget and Mareuil beside her. I arrested Pouget and Mareuil; Pouget called me a coward and a scoundrel. Louise Michel managed to escape.
President: Did Louise Michel say anything to you?
Cornat: She said, ‘Don’t hurt me!’
Blanc, Peacekeeper, 6th Arrondissement: On March 9, a peacekeeper informed the officer that a bakery on Rue des Canettes was being looted. We pursued the mob and caught them at Place Maubert. The officer arrested Louise Michel, who said, ‘Don’t hurt us; we only ask for bread!’ Pouget called the officer a coward and a scoundrel.
The trial continued with witnesses and accusations, but Louise Michel maintained her stance, defending the protests as a cry for justice and denying any violent intent or organized looting, shouting, ‘Down with the police! Down with Vidocq! Long live the social revolution!’ The attackers were armed with lead-weighted canes, revolvers, and knives.
Louise Michel: I never said, ‘Don’t hurt us,’ but only, ‘We won’t hurt you.’ All these gentlemen were in great turmoil.
President (to Louise Michel): Were you the only one who remained calm?
Louise Michel: We’ve seen so much! I protest for the honor of the Revolution! I have every right to challenge the inconsistencies in the witnesses’ testimonies. I have never bowed before anyone. I have never begged for mercy. You may say whatever you like, you may condemn us, but I will not allow you to disgrace us.
Hearing of June 22
CONTINUATION OF THE PROSECUTION’S WITNESSES
Mademoiselle Moricet: On March 9, I was in the shop with my sister and mother when I saw a group arrive in front of the house, led by a woman carrying a black flag. This woman stopped in front of the shop, struck the ground with her flag, and started laughing!
Immediately, the group stormed the shop, took all the bread and cakes that were there, then broke the plates and windows. I quickly went to get my father.
President: Are you certain you saw Louise Michel stop in front of the shop and laugh while striking the ground with her flag?
Mademoiselle Moricet: Yes, sir.
Louise Michel: I am ashamed to even respond to such claims! Even if little Moricet were to bring her sister, her cousin, her little brother, and whoever else she wants, I will not dignify such unserious accusations with a response. I await the prosecution’s arguments to address them properly.
Mademoiselle Moricet (the sister): I was in the shop with my mother when, all of a sudden, a group arrived led by a woman; it was her. She laughed while looking at the shop, and I even said to my mother, ‘Look, she must know you!’ At that moment, the entire group stormed the shop and looted it.
Louise Michel: I will repeat what I said earlier: it is shameful to see children reciting the lessons their parents taught them.
Chaussadat, painter, Quai du Louvre, called by the defense:
On March 9, I was at the corner of Rue de Seine, opposite the Moricet bakery. I saw the crowd approach from a distance. Mademoiselle Louise Michel passed by without stopping. Later, I heard about the looting of the bakery (or rather, I saw bread being thrown).
President: You don’t call that looting?
Chaussadat: I saw bread being thrown, and the unfortunate people picking it up.
Louise Michel: I thank the witness for paying tribute to the truth!
Henri Rochefort, publicist: One day, while discussing the March demonstrations, Louise Michel told me that the newspapers had made much of a sum of about 60 francs found on one of the accused. She added that this sum came from a collection made at a meeting. Louise Michel shared this with me on the day she went to turn herself in to Mr. Camescasse. That same day, she confirmed to me the entirely peaceful nature of the demonstration she had attended. She hadn’t even wanted to carry the red flag. I was very surprised by this accusation of looting against Louise Michel.
Vaughan, publicist: Mademoiselle Louise Michel, on the evening of the demonstration, told me that her friend Pouget would be found carrying a sum of 60 or 70 francs, which she herself had given him, and which was the result of a collection made at a meeting. I am happy to express my deep sympathy for Citizen Louise Michel.
Louise Michel: Citizen, I thank you, and I will strive to ensure no citizen ever has reason to be ashamed of me.
Rouillon, neighbor of Louise Michel’s mother: Citizen Louise Michel had no confidence in the outcome of the demonstration. She told me this before attending. The citizen went only out of duty.
The witness then provided extensive details about violence and threats allegedly endured by Louise Michel and her family.
Louise Michel: You can see that our families are being attacked in our homes, and it’s allowed!
Meusy, editor of L’Intransigeant, confirmed Vaughan’s testimony regarding the 71 francs found on the accused Pouget.
This was the last witness for the defense.
The Attorney General, Quesnay de Beaurepaire, then spoke.
Afterward, Mr. Balandreau, a court-appointed attorney, stated that Louise Michel intended to defend herself.
LOUISE MICHEL’S DEFENSE
“This is a political trial being held against us. It is not we who are being prosecuted, but the anarchist party through us. That is why I declined the offers of defense from Mr. Balandreau and our friend Laguerre, who not long ago ardently defended our friends in Lyon.
The Attorney General invoked the law of 1871 against us. I will not dwell on whether this law was made by the victors against the vanquished, against those they crushed as a millstone crushes grain. That was the time when federates were hunted in the plains, when Gallifet pursued us into the catacombs, when the streets of Paris were lined with piles of corpses.
You seem shocked, even terrified, by the idea of a woman daring to defend herself. Society is not accustomed to seeing a woman who dares to think. As Proudhon said, women are expected to be either housewives or courtesans!
We took up the black flag because the demonstration was meant to be peaceful, because it is the flag of strikes, the flag of those who are starving. Could we have taken another? The red flag is nailed to the graves, and it should only be reclaimed when it can be defended. At that time, we could not defend it. I have said it before, and I repeat it now: this was meant to be a peaceful demonstration.
I went to the demonstration because I had to go. Why was I arrested? I have traveled across Europe, declaring that I do not recognize borders, saying that all humanity has the right to the inheritance of humanity.
This inheritance will not belong to us, accustomed as we are to living in slavery, but to those who will have freedom and know how to use it. That is how we defend the Republic. And when you say we are its enemies, we have only one response: we founded it on thirty-five thousand of our corpses.”
Louise Michel continued her impassioned defense, highlighting the injustices faced by the working class and the double standards of those in power. She concluded by reaffirming her commitment to the cause of liberty and equality.
The trial ended with a deeply divided court, as Louise Michel remained defiant and unyielding.
Five years of imprisonment?
I did not want the workers’ cry to be lost. You may do with me as you please; this is not about me, but about a large part of France, a large part of the world, because more and more people are becoming anarchists. They are disgusted with power as it was under Mr. Bonaparte. Many revolutions have already taken place! Sedan rid us of Mr. Bonaparte; another was born on March 18. You will undoubtedly see more revolutions, and that is why we march confidently toward the future! Without the authority of one, there would be light, there would be truth, there would be justice. The authority of one is a crime. What we want is the authority of all. The Attorney General accuses me of wanting to be a leader: I have too much pride for that, for being a leader is to degrade oneself.
We are far removed from Mr. Moricet, and I find it difficult to return to these petty details. Must we talk about crumbs distributed to children? It is not that bread we sought; it was the bread of labor that we demanded. How can you imagine that reasonable men would amuse themselves by taking a few loaves of bread? If children picked up crumbs, so be it, but it pains me to discuss such trivial matters. I prefer to return to greater ideas. Let the youth work instead of going to cafes, and they will learn to fight to improve the plight of the miserable and prepare for the future.
We only recognize a homeland to make it a hotbed of war; we only acknowledge borders to make them subjects of scheming. Homeland and family—we envision them broader and more inclusive. Those are our crimes. We live in an era of anxiety; everyone seeks their path, but we still say: Come what may! Let liberty prevail! Let equality prevail, and we will be happy!
The session was adjourned at 5 p.m., and the continuation of the debates was postponed until the following day.
Session of June 23
The floor was given to Maître Pierre, who defended Pouget, and then to Pouget himself. Maître Pierre also defended Moreau, who had been arrested during the trial.
Monsieur Laguerre spoke last in favor of the three remaining defendants who were free.
After a few closing words from the Attorney General, the president asked the accused if they had anything to add to their defense. Louise Michel alone took the floor, saying:
“I only want to say one thing: this is a political trial, and it is a political trial that you are about to judge. As for me, I have been cast as the main accused. I accept that. Yes, I am the sole one; I radicalized all my friends. But then strike me alone! I made the sacrifice of myself long ago, and I am indifferent to what may please or displease me. I see only the Revolution! It is her I will always serve; it is her I salute! May she rise among men instead of rising from ruins!”
At a quarter to three, the jury retired to deliberate and returned at a quarter past four.
The foreman of the jury read the verdict: it was affirmative but mitigated by extenuating circumstances for Louise Michel, Pouget, and Moreau (known as Gareau), and negative for the other defendants.
As a result of this verdict, Mareuil, Onfroy, Martinet, and Madame Bouillet were immediately acquitted.
After thirty minutes of deliberation, the court sentenced the two absent defendants, Gorget and Thierry, to two years in prison each, Louise Michel to six years of imprisonment, Pouget to eight years, and Moreau (known as Gareau) to one year in prison.
Louise Michel and Pouget were also placed under high police surveillance for ten years.
President: “Condemned, you have three full days to appeal the judgment.”
Louise Michel: “Never! You too closely mimic the magistrates of the Empire.”
Violent protests erupted from the back of the courtroom in response to the sentences. Some shouted, “Long live Louise Michel!” amidst the noise and various cries as the session was adjourned.
The tumult continued outside, where Citizen Lisbonne, notable for his vehement protests, was expelled from the courthouse. The crowd lingered for some time at Place Dauphine.
Note
Since it is to the crowd that I now address myself, I will say what I did not think necessary to mention during the trial. We would not seek to evoke pity from our judges (a futile endeavor, as we were judged in advance).
Not only did I not foolishly laugh on a doorstep, but having just left my mother, who begged me to wait until she was gone before attending demonstrations, I had little reason to laugh.
As for choosing Moricet’s bakery as the citadel of a revolutionary movement, I have no need to defend myself against such absurdity.
It is not a crumb of bread that humanity needs, but the harvest of the entire world for all humanity, free from exploiters and exploited alike.