This is one chapter of A History of the Paris Commune of 1871 by Proudhon, with the original title as such. The author personally participated in the revolutionary struggle of the Paris Commune, and after its failure, he fled to London. During his exile, he wrote this book, sponsored by Marx, who also personally participated in proofreading the German translation.
Paris of the Commune had only three days left to live. Let us engrave its glorious image deeply in our memories.
Great Paris, for all those who feel your strong, moving breath, for those who walk emotionally along your shaded avenues, tears in their eyes, passing through your suburbs, for those who have sung your revolutionary dawn and washed their hands blackened by gunpowder behind barricades in the following weeks, for those who hear the voices of the fallen for the ideals under every paving stone, and salute the witnesses of noble deeds on every street, for these people, every street of yours is like a nerve. If they do not understand the outside world’s comments on you, they cannot make a correct judgment of you. Foreign mediocrities sneer disdainfully, shouting: “Look at this madness!” but they are peering with both eyes at the proletarians who have laid down their hammers and are glaring fiercely. They tremble, afraid that your resistance will teach the proletariat how to fundamentally overthrow their rule. The attraction of the uprising Paris is so great that Americans hurried over to see this unprecedented event in history: the largest city on the European continent is in the hands of the proletariat. Even the most timid are drawn.
In the first few days of May, a friend came to visit us, one of those timid people from a fearful province. When he left, his family accompanied him with tears, as if he were going into the underworld. He asked us: “What is the real situation?”
Let’s go and carefully observe every corner of Paris.
We first set out from the Bastille. The newsvendor shouted loudly: “Order paper” (published by Rochefort), “Old Middle-aged Man’s Paper,” “Voice of the People” (by Jules Vallès), “Vengeful Paper” (by Félix Piar), “Commune Paper,” “Liberation Paper,” “Spy Publicity Paper.” Not many bought the “Bulletin,” because the competition among the Commune’s journalists almost caused it to cease publication. The “Voice of the People” reached a circulation of one hundred thousand copies. This was a newspaper that came to life with the first crowing of the rooster. If we published something by Vallès on this paper, it would be lucky, as he often let that tiresome Pierre speak. Although the “Old Middle-aged Man’s Paper” sold sixty thousand copies, it was no more popular than before. The articles by Félix Piar in the “Vengeful Paper” are good evidence of literary decline. The bourgeoisie has no better godfathers than these pretentious ignoramuses who curse. There are also theoretical talkers on the “Commune Paper,” where Mirière often publishes articles, and Georges Dusch uses a stern attitude fitting for another character to motivate the old and young in the town hall. Don’t forget the “Order Paper,” even romantics would say so. It was a newspaper that first supported the March 18 revolution and once wounded the Versaillais with an arrow.
People see cartoons of the Graetz Three Goddesses—Tige, Picard, and Jules Favier—at newsstands, all tightening their bellies. The beautiful fish with green scales lying by the emperor’s bed is Marquis Calli. The allied organ “Future” (Avenir), the very hostile “Siècle” after Sèdier’s arrest, Edward Porta’s “Truth,” all pile up there, untouched. Many reactionary newspapers have been banned by the police, but they have not stopped publishing; a certain unscrupulous newsvendor is selling them to us.
Among all these war-heated newspapers of the Commune, I read and look for messages calling for slaughter and plunder, cruel lines, then compare them with the Versaillais newspapers demanding immediate slaughter after the army had defeated Paris.
Following the funeral procession along La Roquette Street, we arrived at La Rochefoucauld Cemetery. All the martyrs sacrificed for Paris are solemnly buried in a large family tomb. The Commune spent money on their funeral and also glorified the Commune itself. The red flag of the Commune flutters at the four corners of the hearse, comrades from each battalion follow behind, and passersby keep joining the funeral procession. A woman accompanies her husband’s body. A member of the Commune also follows the hearse, not to mourn at the grave but to speak of hope and revenge. The widow hugs her children and tells them: "Never forget, shout with me: Long live the Republic! Long live the Commune!"①
On the way back, we pass in front of the 10th District Government, which is draped in black mourning for France’s recent election, although Paris was innocent of any fault, it became its sacrifice. We pass through the bustling Bastille Square, lively due to the peppercake market. Despite cannon fire, Paris refuses to give up; its annual fair even extended for a week. Swings sway, roulette wheels spin, toy vendors shout selling a toy for thirteen sous, tightrope walkers speak, saying they will donate half of their income to the wounded. A National Guard soldier, leaning on his gun, watches images of Paris besieged or Garibaldi’s entry into Dijon.
We walk down the grand tree-lined avenue. A crowd gathers in front of the Napoleon Circus, about five thousand people sitting in layers from the performance hall to the back wall. Many small flags, each inscribed with a province name, call for unity among provincial residents. The assembly was convened by several merchants, who suggested that citizens from other provinces send representatives to their parliamentarians. They believed this could change the deputies’ opinions and establish peace through explanation. A tall, worried-looking man demands to speak and ascends the podium. It is Mirière, greeted with applause. He says: “Peace? We are all seeking peace. But who started the war? Who attacked Paris on March 18? It was Tige. Who attacked Paris on April 2? Also Tige. Who proposed reconciliation? Who made every effort for peace negotiations? Paris. Who continually refused peace negotiations? Tige. Dufour says we hope to mediate, but the uprising is somewhat culpable. Freemasons and the alliances cannot do what is impossible; declarations and provincial parliaments are powerless. Can you expect a delegation elected by Parisians to do it? Look, you still don’t realize you are damaging your defenses. No, there is no need for any delegation; only close ties with the outside provinces can save this situation!” My friend loudly said: “So this is the so-called ‘madman’ used to scare us from the provinces?” “Yes, these thousands of people from all classes seeking peace, listening politely and answering each other, are called ‘crazy’ people, and the so-called ‘small band of thieves’ controlling the capital.”
We saw 1,500 soldiers in front of the Eugène Prince Barracks, who fought in Paris on March 18. The Commune sheltered them without requiring them to serve. At the top of the Mazzini Avenue, we visited countless skulls unearthed from Saint Laurent Church, still arranged in the order of discovery, with no coffins or shrouds. Has there ever been an explicit prohibition of tombs in churches? But some churches, especially the Basilica of Our Lady of Victory, have tombs filled with skulls. Doesn’t the Commune bear responsibility for exposing these potentially criminal phenomena?
（During the Commune, there were discoveries of places for detention, torture, and murder in monasteries and churches, and these bones are the victims dug up, but the responsible committees, influenced by wrong routes, did not investigate thoroughly）
From the Joy Avenue to the Opera House, we strolled past shops or sat in cafes, observing the same Paris. Carriages for hire were rare because, during the second siege, horse feed was very scarce. We passed through September 4th Street to the Exchange, where a red flag fluttered, then to the National Library filled with readers at long tables. We visited the Louvre, fully open, through the gallery of the Palais Royal, which is always noisy. Versailles newspapers falsely claimed that the Paris Commune sold the nation’s treasures to foreigners!
We descended Rue Reuilly. A huge barricade blocked the entrance to Wandon Square on Castillon Street. The entrance to Concorde Square was blocked by the Fort Saint-Florentin, leaning on the Navy Department on the right and the Tuileries Garden on the left, a poorly built eight-meter-thick bunker with three shooting holes. A trench exposing the full picture of underground life separated the square from the fortress; the construction was nearly finished, workers laying turf on the parapet of the trench. Many curious onlookers watched, some with worried expressions. We walked along a narrow, poorly paved road to Concorde Square. The glorious image of the Strasbourg statue soared above the red flags. Those Commune members accused of being indifferent to France’s fate, with reverence, replaced the wreaths of the first siege with spring flowers.
Now, we entered the battlefield. The Avenue de l’Élysée stretched like a long, desolate line, scarred by shells fired from Monvalerian and Courbet’s artillery. These cannons’ shells reached the Palais des Industries, whose property was bravely defended by the Commune workers. The majestic Arc de Triomphe stood in the distance. The initial spectators had vanished because the Place des Étoiles, almost like a barricade, brought death. Jules Simon had some relief by disguising some bas-reliefs to prevent destruction by the Prussians; their edges were battered by shells. To prevent shells from passing through the arches, the main gates were surrounded by walls. Behind this barricade, people hurriedly placed artillery on platforms nearly as high as the Monvalerian batteries.
We walked along Avenue de l’Élysée through the Saint-Honoré suburb. In the quadrilateral formed by Grande Armée Road, Ternes Road, the city wall, and Wagram Road, not a single building was intact. We understood what Tige meant when he said, “Paris is not bombarded as the Commune claims.” A torn notice hung from a half-collapsed wall. It was Tige’s speech against the “King of Shells” (Naples King Ferdinand II, known for his brutal bombardment of Messina), reprinted by mediators. Tige told the bourgeois of 1848: “Gentlemen, you all know what happened in Palermo. When you hear that a big city was bombarded for forty-eight hours straight, you are all terrified. Who bombed it? Was it the external enemy exercising war rights? No, gentlemen, it was its own government. Why? Because this unfortunate city demanded its rights. Well, for demanding its rights, it was bombarded for forty-eight hours!” Palermo was lucky! Paris had been bombarded for forty days!
We stayed on Ternes Road, somewhat hoping to reach Berrière Lane. From here to Méeo Gate, everyone seemed to be approaching the gates of hell. We took advantage of a temporary ceasefire to reach Méeo Gate, or rather, the heap of ruins left by it. The station was gone, the tunnel filled with broken bricks and tiles, and the city wall collapsed into the trench; only agile lizard-like people dared to move among these ruins. The three cannons commanded by Captain La Marse were placed in front of the city gate; on the right, Captain Rossa and five cannons; on the left, Captain Martin and four cannons. For five weeks, Montrel, who commanded this position, lived among these cannons in smoke and fire. Montvalerian, Courbet, and Bécan fired more than eight thousand shells. Ten men were enough to control these twelve cannons, standing there, bare above the waist, their upper bodies and arms blackened by gunpowder, sweating profusely, often holding a fuse in each hand. The only survivor among the first batch of soldiers was sailor Bonantour, who witnessed how his twenty comrades were blown to pieces. But they held their ground. These cannons, constantly turning into scrap, were repeatedly repaired. The artillerymen only complained about the lack of ammunition because the ammunition wagons dared not come here. The Versaillais repeatedly attempted surprise attacks and might try again at any moment. Montrel guarded day and night, and he could modestly report to the Public Security Committee: As long as he was there, the Versaillais could not enter Méeo Gate.
Every step closer to La Méeo was a challenge to death. But my friend wanted to prove the greatness of Parisians. An officer waved his hat at Brunnlin’s Garden near La Méeo, bullets whistling around him. This officer was Dobrovski, amusing himself by mocking the Versaillais in the trenches. A Commune member, standing beside him, finally persuaded him to stop this reckless act. The general led us into a castle with a command post. All rooms were riddled with bullet holes. Nevertheless, the general stayed there and ordered his men to hold their positions. Someone calculated that none of his aides had been hit in more than eight days. At that moment, Belwider’s sentry ran in panic; a shell hit his post. Dobrovski said, “Don’t leave, unless you are destined to die there, then there’s nothing to fear.” This showed a completely fatalistic courage. Although he sent a telegram to the Army Ministry, he did not get reinforcements. He believed the situation was hopeless and said so too much.
Dobrovski accompanied us past Parsi, to the banks of the Seine, showing us those fortifications that some had already abandoned. What army could withstand such bombardment? Shells destroyed all entrances to the railway. The huge viaduct collapsed in over a hundred places. Several armored trains were overturned and fell to one side. The Versailles artillery on Billiard Island bombarded our water patrol boats; one “Longsword” sank right before our eyes. A patrol boat arrived just in time to rescue the drowned soldiers and then, braving enemy fire all the way to Jena Bridge, headed upstream on the Seine.
Warm air, gentle sunshine, and peaceful silence characterized the environment of this river, this naval disaster, and this bombardment. The death god rushing into this thriving nature made us feel even more terrifying. At this moment, we visited our wounded at Parsi. Commune member Lefrançais visited Dr. Demachy’s field hospital and asked about the wounded. The doctor replied, “My ideals are different from yours; I cannot hope for your success. But I have never seen more determined and calm wounded during surgery. I think their brave spirit is due to strong faith.” We inspected the beds. Most patients anxiously asked when they could return to work and serve. An eighteen-year-old youth, whose right hand had been amputated, stretched out his left hand to us and loudly said: “I still have this hand to serve the Commune!” People told a severely wounded officer: “The Commune has ordered his wages to be paid to his wife and children.” He replied, “I no longer have the right to demand this.” “My friend, this is what Versailles falsely claims as the ‘drunken’ animals forming the Commune army.”
We returned via Mars Field. The barracks here housed relatively few soldiers. To accommodate each battalion, more officers and discipline were needed. In front of the military school, just 1,500 meters from the city defenses and two steps from the Army Ministry, hundreds of large, muddy cannons were abandoned. We ignored these contentious things.（The Army Ministry and the military leaders of the Commune did not arrange or allocate the cannons properly, leaving these weapons idle）, and entered the Legislative Assembly, which had become a workshop. 1,500 women sewed sandbags to fill gaps in the fortifications. A tall, beautiful girl named Marthe was distributing work, wearing a red ribbon with silver, a gift from her female colleagues. Cheerful singing eased the fatigue of work. Every evening, they received their wages, which represented their full labor value; each sandbag sewn earned eight cents, whereas previously, employers paid them less than two cents.
We walked to the riverside street, which remained silent. The Academy held its usual Monday meeting. The workers never said, “The Republic does not need scholars.” Delorena presided over the meeting. Ely de Bomon checked communications and read a paper by his colleague Jules. Bertrand’s article, Bertrand had already fled to Saint Helier. We will see these reports in the Commune’s “Bulletin.”
We would not be willing to leave the Left Bank without visiting the military prison. We asked the soldiers if they had been threatened in Paris, if they had been insulted, and if they would consider their comrades if they wanted to help Paris. According to the usual rules, they would be released.
Now, let’s look at the evening view of this metropolis. The theaters are already open. The “Poetry” Opera is holding a grand musical performance for the wounded, and the Comedy Opera is preparing a show. The Grand Opera announced a special performance next Monday, where we could hear Goss’s hymns. The abandoned “Happy Troupe” artists are running their own theater. “Colosseum Theater,” “Château Theater,” “Francois Theater,” “Ambigu Comedy Theater,” and other entertainment venues are full every night. But we are going to attend a more serious play that Paris has not performed since 1793. Ten churches are open, and the revolution has taken the pulpit. In the old Gavroche district, a noisy assembly echoed through Saint Nicholas de Chardon Church. Dim gaslights illuminated the crowded masses, the Christ statue draped with the sacred people’s flag disappeared into the shadows of the arch. The only bright spot was a table in front of the pulpit with a red flag. An organ played, and the crowd sang the Marseillaise. The speaker’s thoughts, excited by the strange environment, unconsciously turned into shouts, and the echoes seemed to threaten and reproduce the shouts again. People discussed current affairs and defense measures. The Commune members were fiercely attacked, and tough resolutions were passed, to be handed over to the Town Hall tomorrow. Women also sometimes demanded to speak; they had a special club in Batignolles. Of course, this passionate assembly rarely mentioned clear outlines of ideals, but how many people were inspired and encouraged in this meeting!
It was only 9 o’clock now, and we could still go to the music concert at the Tuileries Palace. Female citizens gathered at the concert hall entrance, and the Committee for the care of widows and orphans greeted them. The large halls were lively with cheerful and upright crowds. Women dressed neatly sat on the palace benches for the first time. Three orchestras played in the galleries. The center of the event was Marshal’s Hall, where Miss Agal recited “Punishment” (Hugo’s poetry collection), “William Tell” (Schiller’s work), and Mæbius’s works, all great musical pieces that excluded the obscene music of the empire. Harmonious sounds spread through the large windows into the garden. The shining lights illuminated the grass, dancing by the trees, and added color to the fountains. People talked and laughed in the small woods. Noble Avenue de l’Élysée lay cold and deserted in the darkness, as if protesting to the masters who had never praised it. Versailles also protested with shells, which cast faint light on the Arc de Triomphe, and the civil war was fought under the dark dome of the Arc.
At 11 o’clock, when everyone was returning home, we heard noise from the church side, and Scherzer had just been arrested. He was taken to the police station, and a few hours later, Prosecutor Ligo released him.
The crowd rushing out of the theaters crowded the avenue. At Peters Café, staff officers were joking with prostitutes. Suddenly, a squad of National Guard soldiers came and arrested them. We followed them to the Town Hall, where Longvay, working there, received them. After a brief interrogation, the prostitutes were sent to Saint Lazare Prison, and the officers took axes and shovels to the trenches.
It was now 1 o’clock in the morning. Paris was sleeping soundly. Dear friend, this is “bandit” Paris. You have seen what Paris is thinking, how it weeps and works, how passionate, proud, united, and serious it is about crime. On the streets of Paris, is it less safe at night than during the day? Since Paris established its own police, crime has been eradicated. Everyone does as they please. Where do you see rampant debauchery? The Commune soldiers, as long as they are willing, can acquire over ten billion in wealth, but they live on their wages, which are laughably small compared to their past income. Do you finally understand this Paris, which has suffered seven bombardments since 1789 but is still ready to rise again to save France? Do you ask where the program of Paris is? Well, look right in front of you, don’t look for it in this chaotic City Hall. These smoking city defenses, these proofs of heroic spirit, the men and women of all trades united here, the workers worldwide cheering for our struggle, conspiring against our monarchic states and all bourgeoisie—they are not loudly proclaiming our common ideas, not propagating our fight for equality, for the liberation of workers, for building a classless society? If France still turns a deaf ear, it is too unfortunate! You should go back and tell the provinces supporting the republic: “These proletarians are also fighting for you, and perhaps tomorrow you will become exiles.” You shout: “The seeds of revolution will grow stronger from the blood of the people. Paris’s ideals will rise from its smoky ruins, inherited by the descendants of the victims, never to be extinguished.” But the class that is building empires and believes that ruling means suppressing the people with shrapnel every twenty years is shouting loudly to drown out this roar.