Selections from Victor Hugo

There, on the bank of the Seine, are hills tickled by the flowing water, where the palaces of the feudal lords dance; from them wafts the scent of feasts and banquets, and in their skies rises the ringing of glasses and the dance music that electrifies the air and thickens it with dark, gloomy clouds... And along their sides human bodies move like shadows, seeking the crumbs and scraps that the cat and the dogs fight over...

Among those hills our poet stood, leaning against the trunk of a tree, contemplating that toiling, suffering human society, his gaze fixed on the horizon stretching far behind the bewildered hills. And he opened his mouth to express what stirred within him. He said:

O you rich, you happy ones of the world, when you hold your feasts in winter,

and when dancing and revelry engulf you,

when beneath your feet gleam the reflections of mirrors and silver lamps,

and the blazing chandeliers that form circles of light shining like stars,

and raptures of joy and pride show on the faces of the guests.

Here is the voice of the golden bell filling your sumptuous houses,

turning the voice of the hurrying hours into sweet melodies.

Ah... do you ever think that there is a poor man, devoured by hunger, standing dazed at the pitch-black crossroads, staring at your dancing shadows reflected on the golden windows?

...Do you ever think that there, beneath the snow and frost, is a wretched father devoured by hunger and idleness?

And do you think of it, or do you hear, the beating of his heart saying in a low voice... for one man alone, how many riches...

And how many companions make merry at his party... this happy rich man.

His children smile upon him... and with the price of their many toys I could stay the hunger of my starving children.

He compares your feast and its lights with his humble hearth of flame and smoke,

and your children with his hungry children... and their mother clothed in ragged garments,

stretched motionless upon a little straw,

where winter, alas, has offered her up a victim to death.

★

When the wretched old man stands on your threshold like a skeleton,
kneeling upon his knees — but in vain —
and the little children pick up the crumbs of your gluttonous banquets,
their hands reddened with cold and their faces pale with hunger,
they go back to their mothers disappointed and sorrowful.
... God withdraws from you ...
Give your alms to God, who guards your families.

Teach your children to give succor to your daughters.
Give of your vines, that their fruit may always be sweet.
Give of the wheat heaped up in your storehouses.
Give... for the face of the earth will soon be changed
for these toilers who suffer beside your banquets,
while on the thresholds of your marble palaces the wretched eyes are staring.