Chapter 17. The Death of Marie Ferre

Marie Ferre had lived for a decade after the horrible events surrounding the arrest of Theophile. Persons whose brothers or fathers were sent to New Caledonia or to exile elsewhere know her devotion and indefatigable courage. At London the refugees had spoken to me about a few days she had spent there as if, by seeing her, they saw friends again who had disappeared during the slaughter. I believe they loved Marie more than I did, but none of us has her any longer.

After I was arrested for the incident on Blanqui’s anniversary, Marie Ferre fell ill. Her heart had been weak for ten years, any emotion was dangerous for her, and after she suffered a short illness, death came for her on the night of 23-24 February 1882.

At 47, rue Condorcet in Paris, there is a red room shaped like a lantern. Marie, when Mme Bias rented the room, told me about it. “It’s a real nest,” Marie said. “You’ll see how peaceful it is there.” It was a nest—the nest of her death.

Her illness had not seemed serious at first. We did not suspect it was going to have such a terrible conclusion, but it was in that little red room shaped like a lantern that we lost her.

After I had served my two-week sentence, I was released. When I found that Marie was ill, I was a little upset that she didn’t come to stay with me until she recovered, but she told me, “I shall be well in my little red room. After a few days it will all be over.”

It was indeed all over. If God existed, he would be truly a monster to strike such a blow.

Her bed was opposite the door, with its head against the wall. During the two days while her body was laid out there, someone across the hall who didn’t know what was happening never stopped playing the violin. That’s the way it is in cities where each building is a city in itself. The sound of that violin sank into my heart.

In front of her bed we laid Marie in her coffin, well wrapped in my large red shawl, which she used to like. Someone had given it to me in case I needed to make a banner, and it made her shroud. It’s the same thing now.

Here is the way the newspapers of 28 June [sic: February] 1882 described the funeral of Marie Ferre.

Yesterday morning at 9 o’clock, the funeral of the courageous Citizen Marie Ferre took place. She was the sister of Theophile Ferr6, who was murdered by the reactionary bourgeoisie for his participation in the Commune.

The life of Marie Ferre was one of self-abnegation and devotion to the cause for which her brother died. Thus it was with respectful admiration that a great number of friends yesterday followed this martyr to the revolutionary faith to her last resting place...

The cortege was made up of a thousand persons, among whom were Henri Rochefort, Clovis Hughes, Hubertine Auclert, Camille Bias, Ca- dolle, and Louise Michel...

When the funeral procession reached the cemetery at Levallois-Perret, several persons made speeches: delegates from revolutionary groups, social studies circles, free thought associations, and the Committee of Vigilance of the Eighteenth Arrondissement...

“History,” Jules Allix said, “will associate the memory of Theophile Ferre with the great and sublime devotion of his sister Marie, and it is her simple and great life that we salute here.

“Frail and gentle like all women, she was as strong as the most coura¬ geous man.

“We salute you, Marie Ferre. Your memory will live in spite of the care you took to hide yourself. We the tortured, we the banished and exiled, form a procession here for you. It will last until the day when we will glorify our martyrs who died to make liberty grow for those who remain.

“The crowd that is pressing around your tomb, dear citizen with the wonderful spirit, is making a greater eulogy to your life than all the speeches today. May you be honored, Marie Ferre. We ask that we may imitate your example, so that instead of martyrdoms alone, we will win the final triumph. Long live the Republic! Long live the Revolution!”

The sad moment ended with a few words from Emile Gautier and me. I said to the crowd: “Citizens, we place this tombstone over the very heart of the Revolution. Let us remember. Let us always remember!”

Gautier concluded the ceremony: “You have said it very well, Louise. Let us remember. May memory come back to life and make us glimpse the dawn of the days when liberty, equality, and justice will reign.”

When Marie Ferre died, the revolutionary women of Lyon who had been calling themselves the Louise Michel Association took the name Marie Ferre Association. Thank you, just and valiant women of Lyon.

Among the fragments of 28 February 1882 there are many touching pages written about the heroic and impressive friend whom we had lost. Henri Rochefort reminisced about her at length.

When I saw Marie again after my return from exile, I had been keeping in my mind an ineradicable memory of the young girl from my days in prison, and her unexpected death brought it back to my attention.

I see her again, gliding like a shadow in her black clothing along the corridor that led to the visiting room in the jail. Rossel, Th£ophile Ferr£, and I were usually all together in a set of cubicles which were arranged like a sort of prison wagon. Because all three of us were marked for execution, we were locked up next to each other on the first floor of the prison with two guards who had uneasy eyes staring curiously at us through open spy-holes.

In the visiting room Mile Rossel, Mile Ferre, and my children waited, sharing their common anxiety. When they found out I had been sentenced only to deportation for life, I shall never forget the look of sympathetic longing the two young girls gave my children. It seemed to say, “Your father is only going to have to end his days six thousand leagues from here among man-eating savages. You’re fortunate!”

Like Delescluze’s sister, Ferre’s sister struggled bravely against the bitterness of regrets, and then she fell, vanquished.

When the clerical calendar that the mailman brings us each year is replaced by the republican calendar, the name of this martyr will shine there among the most memorable. If ever civil baptism replaces religious baptism, decent women will honor her virtue and her memory by dedicat¬ ing their children to her.

The last fragment I want to give is a poem I wrote to Marie’s memory just after her death.

In Memory of Marie Ferre

We have to admit that she is dead.

From the gates of jail, we’ll see her no more.

The door to cold nothing will never reopen.

These words shall go where tears can’t reach.

To speak her name will take us back

To all those we have lost.

Marie was modest, brave, and proud,

A contrast of charm we often admired.

It’s over now; and in her tomb

She sleeps forever; our last smile

Held in her heart; and beneath the stone

My heart is buried alive.

Betwixt bleak skies and stony earth

A few rare treasures are fleetingly ours

Before pale death swoops in to steal.

We stand beneath our crimson flags

And mourn the loss of those we love,

Too soon taken to the tomb.

Revolution; beloved mother who devours us

Giving equality, take our broken destinies

And make of them a dawning. Make liberty

Fly above our cherished dead. When the bells

Of ominous May ring out again, wake us

To your luminescent clarity.

Louise Michel

February 1882

After the terrible blow of Marie’s death, I thought I would die. My mother still remained alive then, my mother and the Revolution. As I write these lines, I have only the Revolution.