If you’ve ever taken a course in French literature, whether taught in English or French, you may well have read one of Victor Hugo’s most famous poems, Demain dès l’aube. The poem first appeared in 1856—one of seventeen compositions that Hugo dedicated to his daughter, Léopoldine, who drowned in a tragic accident at age 19. Hugo titled the collection Pauca meæ, which has been translated numerous ways but my favorite is Le peu de ce qu’il reste de ma fille.
In keeping with the volume’s theme, Demain dès l’aube, tells us almost nothing about Léopoldine. Instead, Hugo’s verse delivers a sorrowful glimpse of life after the loss of a child. Part of the poem’s strength is its autobiographical nature. As I’ve stated before, my favorite writing reveals some form of penetrating truth. This is a difficult task since perceptions of reality vary from one individual to the next. But here, because Hugo describes his own actions and emotions, there is little doubt about the poem’s genuineness.
With this in mind, you might understand my astonishment earlier this year when I came upon the last letter that Hugo wrote to his beloved Léopoldine. The missive was adorned with a sketch of Hugo’s surroundings while traveling in the Pyrénées and is exemplary of the great author’s visual aptitude.
Léopoldine Hugo
Born in 1824, Léopoldine was the oldest of Victor Hugo’s children to survive infancy. She had three younger siblings but seems to have been the apple of her father’s eye. When Hugo was away from home, he wrote to her nearly every day and when Léopoldine was old enough to read, she was often the first person with whom he shared his latest work.
At the age of 14, Léopoldine fell in love with a 21-year-old suitor, Charles Vacquerie. Already feeling the rapid passage of time and fearing Léopoldine’s inevitable departure, Hugo insisted that she was too young for marriage. True love, however, is willing to wait and in February of 1843, Léopoldine Hugo married Charles Vacquerie with her father’s ardent blessing.
The following September, Vacquerie, accompanied by his uncle and cousin, boarded a newly constructed rowboat in the Seine. They planned to conduct business with a notary about a mile and a half downstream and return before lunch. The weather was calm and Vacquerie invited his new bride to join but Léopoldne declined. Shortly after shoving off, however, Vacquerie returned to shore and ran to the house, claiming the boat needed more ballast. Upon seeing her husband, Léopoldine had a change of heart and decided to join the party.
There was so little wind that day, that after they’d conducted their business, the notary offered to drive them home. Even though the lethargic return would greatly delay their lunch, they piled into the small vessel. En route, they encountered a sudden burst of wind that flipped the dinghy, trapping the passengers beneath the hull. Vacquerie managed to free himself and came up for air several times, calling for help. Tragically, his attempts to free his wife and others failed and all four passengers drowned. Hugo was traveling at the time and no one knew how to reach him. He learned of his daughter’s death by reading the newspaper and was devastated.
« Hier, je venais de faire une grande course à pied au soleil dans les marais ; j’étais las, j’avais soif, j’arrive à un village qu’on appelle, je crois, Soubise, et j’entre dans un café. On m’apporte de la bière et un journal, le Siècle. J’ai lu. C’est ainsi que j’ai appris que la moitié de ma vie et de mon cœur était morte.»
—Victor Hugo, from a letter written on September 10, 1843, six days after Léopoldine’s death.
“Yesterday, I had just come from a long walk in the sun through the marshes; I was weary, I was thirsty, I arrived at a village named, I believe, Subise, and entered a café. They brought me a beer and a newspaper, Le Siècle. I read. Thus, I learned that the better half of my life and my heart was dead.”
Demain dès l’aube
Hugo fell into a deep depression. The next ten years were the darkest of his life and while he tried to work, nothing he produced directly confronted nor eased his anguish. In 1856, he released a six-volume collection of poems, Les Contemplations, comprising 156 poems, most of which were written during this black period. The fifth book, dedicated to Léopoldine, is Pauca meæ.
Written in the first person, Demain dès l’aube, is an imagined monologue delivered by the narrator to his beloved as he travels on foot to see her after a long and difficult separation. Hugo was an avid walker and he wrote the poem on the anniversary eve of Léopoldine’s death before making his annual pilgrimage to her grave.
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Tomorrow, at dawn, as the countryside whitens,
I shall leave. You’re waiting for me; I know.
I shall go by the forest, I shall go by the mountain.
I can’t stay away any longer.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
I shall walk with my eyes closed in on my thoughts,
Seeing nothing beyond, hearing no sound,
Alone, unknown, back bent, hands crossed,
And sad. Day for me will be like night.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
—Victor Hugo, 1847
As golden evening falls, and distant sails
Make for Harfleur, I won’t be looking.
When I arrive, I shall place on your tomb
A posy of green holly and of heather in flower.
—Translation by John Richmond
Vue de Luz
Like many of his contemporaries, Hugo adorned his letters and the margins of manuscripts with drawings that complement the text. Hugo’s commitment to the writing profession kept him from his family but he wrote to them frequently, especially Léopoldine, often taking time to illustrate these dispatches. In August of 1843, while traveling in the Pyrénées, he sent what would be his last letter to this cherished daughter. The carefully constructed page, penned ten days before Léopoldine’s death, is further testament to Hugo’s tender devotion to his newly-wedded oldest child and her spouse.
Last Letter to Léopoldine
Luz, 25 août
Luz, August 25 [1843]
J’écris à ta mère, ma fille chérie, la tournée que je fais dans ces montagnes. Je t’envoie au dos de cette lettre un petit gribouillis qui te donnera quelque idée des choses que je vois tous les jours, qui me paraissent bien belles, et qui me sembleraient bien plus belles encore, chère enfant, si je les voyais avec toi. Ce qui te surprendra, c’est que l’espèce de ruine qui est au bas de la montagne n’est point une ruine : c’est un rocher. Les Pyrénées sont pleines de ces blocs étranges qui imitent des édifices écroulés. Les Pyrénées elles-mêmes, au reste, ne sont qu’un grand édifice écroulé.
I wrote to your mother, my dear daughter, about the tour I’m taking in these mountains. I send on the back of this letter a little doodle that will give you an idea of things I see every day, that appear quite beautiful to me, and that would seem even more beautiful, dear child, if I saw them with you. What will surprise you is that the sort of ruin at the base of the mountain is not a ruin at all: it’s a boulder. The Pyrenees are full of these strange blocks that impersonate collapsed buildings. Moreover, the Pyrenees themselves are none other than a great toppled edifice.
Les deux triangles blancs que tu vois dans les entre-deux des montagnes sont de la neige. Dans certaines Pyrénées, et particulièrement sur le Vignemale, la neige prend son niveau comme l’océan.
The two white triangles that you see between the mountains are snow. On some Pyrenees, especially on Vignemale, the snow chooses its level like the ocean.
Je prends les eaux, mais j’ai toujours les yeux malades. Il est vrai que je travaille beaucoup. Je pourrais dire sans cesse. Mais c’est ma vie. Travailler, c’est m’occuper de vous tous.
I’m drinking the restorative waters [of the region], but my eyes are still ailing. It’s true that I work a lot. I might say ceaselessly. But such is my life. To work is to take care of all of you.
Tu as maintenant deux Charles pour te rendre heureuse. Avant peu tu auras aussi ton père. Donc, continue d’engraisser, de rire et de te bien porter. Rayonne, mon enfant. Tu es dans l’âge.
You now have two men named Charles [presumably Léopoldine’s brother and her husband] to make you happy. Soon you will also have your father. So, continue to eat well, to laugh and to take care of yourself. Shine, my child. You are at that age.
Je charge ta mère de mes souvenirs pour madame Lefèvre et monsieur Regnauld. Et puis je t’embrasse, ton Charles et toi, du fond du cœur.
I charge your mother with mementos to pass on to Madame Lefèvre and Monsieur Regnauld. And finally, I send kisses, to you and to Charles, from the bottom of my heart.
Écris-moi maintenant à La Rochelle poste restante.
Fais souvenir ta bonne mère, qui est un peu distraite, que c’est à La Rochelle qu’il faut m’écrire désormais.
Write to me next at La Rochelle, general delivery.
Make sure your mother, who is a little absent-minded, remembers that she must write to me at La Rochelle from here on.
To lose a child is quite possibly the worst thing that can happen.
Nice post though.
Merci
The grief didn’t end there for Victor Hugo. His next oldest daughter, Adele followed a British Officer across the Atlantic only to be avoided and rejected. Though she lived a long life, her father found her so despondent and damaged that he had her placed in asylum.
Interesting Jim! I knew Adele wound up in an asylum and that there was controversy surrounding her confinement but I didn’t know about the British officer. Sounds like another interesting story. Given that the family lived on Jersey and then Guernsey for roughly 18 years, she might well have met the officer during that period.
Thanks for weighing in!
Thank you for this. So sad! I often have wondered how creative people carry on after that kind of loss.
Yes, it must have been very difficult. I think often people deal with tremendous adversity simply because they have no other viable options. With time, the pain recedes and life again becomes manageable. But, I doubt you can ever fully get over the loss of a child.
Wrenching. I always wonder, though, how much the siblings of such favored children suffer–especially after the impact of loss. Perhaps Adele’s rejection by the British officer wouldn’t have proven so devastating if she’d received more affection from her father. Forgive the armchair psychology…
Ha! You may have something there Annie.