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The victim having once got his stroke-of-grace, the catastrophe can be
considered as almost come. There is small interest now in watching his
long low moans: notable only are his sharper agonies, what convulsive
struggles he may take to cast the torture off from him; and then finally
the last departure of life itself, and how he lies extinct and ended,
either wrapt like Caesar in decorous mantle-folds, or unseemly sunk
together, like one that had not the force even to die.
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The old regime has for the most part been destroyed.
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Was French Royalty, when wrenched forth from its tapestries in that
fashion, on that Sixth of October 1789, such a victim? Universal France,
and Royal Proclamation to all the Provinces, answers anxiously, No;
nevertheless one may fear the worst. Royalty was beforehand so decrepit,
moribund, there is little life in it to heal an injury. How much of its
strength, which was of the imagination merely, has fled; Rascality having
looked plainly in the King's face, and not died! When the assembled crows
can pluck up their scarecrow, and say to it, Here shalt thou stand and not
there; and can treat with it, and make it, from an infinite, a quite finite
Constitutional scarecrow, — what is to be looked for? Not in the finite
Constitutional scarecrow, but in what still unmeasured, infinite-seeming
force may rally round it, is there thenceforth any hope. For it is most
true that all available Authority is mystic in its conditions, and comes
'by the grace of God.'
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And its last vestige, the monarchy, teeters on the brink, supported only by
words and not by power, as if it has been abandoned by God.
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Cheerfuller than watching the death-struggles of Royalism will it be to
watch the growth and gambollings of Sansculottism; for, in human things,
especially in human society, all death is but a death-birth: thus if the
sceptre is departing from Louis, it is only that, in other forms, other
sceptres, were it even pike-sceptres, may bear sway. In a prurient
element, rich with nutritive influences, we shall find that Sansculottism
grows lustily, and even frisks in not ungraceful sport: as indeed most
young creatures are sportful; nay, may it not be noted further, that as the
grown cat, and cat-species generally, is the cruellest thing known, so the
merriest is precisely the kitten, or growing cat?
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But nature abhors vacuum and a proletarian power is growing to fill the void.
In its beginnings it does not bear a terrible aspect.
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But fancy the Royal Family risen from its truckle-beds on the morrow of
that mad day: fancy the Municipal inquiry, "How would your Majesty please
to lodge?" — and then that the King's rough answer, "Each may lodge as he
can, I am well enough," is congeed ['by-your-leaved']
and bowed away, in expressive grins, by
the Townhall Functionaries, with obsequious upholsterers at their back; and
how the Château of the Tuileries is repainted, regarnished into a golden
Royal Residence; and Lafayette with his blue National Guards lies
encompassing it, as blue Neptune (in the language of poets) does an island,
wooingly. Thither may the wrecks of rehabilitated Loyalty gather; if it
will become Constitutional; for Constitutionalism thinks no evil;
Sansculottism itself rejoices in the King's countenance. The rubbish of a
Menadic Insurrection, as in this ever-kindly world all rubbish can and must
be, is swept aside; and so again, on clear arena, under new conditions,
with something even of a new stateliness, we begin a new course of action.
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With the King civilly, even loyally, imprisoned, France heads in a new, unknown
direction.
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Arthur Young has witnessed the strangest scene: Majesty walking unattended
in the Tuileries Gardens; and miscellaneous tricolor crowds, who cheer it,
and reverently make way for it: the very Queen commands at lowest
respectful silence, regretful avoidance.
(Arthur Young's Travels, i. 264-280.)
Simple ducks, in those royal waters, quackle for crumbs from young
royal fingers: the little Dauphin has a little railed garden, where he is
seen delving, with ruddy cheeks and flaxen curled hair; also a little hutch
to put his tools in, and screen himself against showers. What peaceable
simplicity! Is it peace of a Father restored to his children? Or of a
Taskmaster who has lost his whip? Lafayette and the Municipality and
universal Constitutionalism assert the former, and do what is in them to
realise it. Such Patriotism as snarls dangerously, and shows teeth,
Patrollotism shall suppress; or far better, Royalty shall soothe down the
angry hair of it, by gentle pattings; and, most effectual of all, by fuller
diet. Yes, not only shall Paris be fed, but the King's hand be seen in
that work. The household goods of the Poor shall, up to a certain amount,
by royal bounty, be disengaged from pawn, and that insatiable Mont de
Pieté
disgorge: rides in the city with their vive-le-roi need not fail;
and so
by substance and show, shall Royalty, if man's art can popularise it, be
popularised. (Deux Amis, iii. c. 10.)
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The authorities of Paris encourage loyalty to the King and make sure
he has the credit for
improvement of conditions.
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Or, alas, is it neither restored Father nor diswhipped Taskmaster that
walks there; but an anomalous complex of both these, and of innumerable
other heterogeneities; reducible to no rubric, if not to this newly devised
one: King Louis Restorer of French Liberty? Man indeed, and King Louis
like other men, lives in this world to make rule out of the ruleless; by
his living energy, he shall force the absurd itself to become less absurd.
But then if there be no living energy; living passivity only? King
Serpent, hurled into his unexpected watery dominion, did at least bite, and
assert credibly that he was there: but as for the poor
King Log[84],
tumbled
hither and thither as thousandfold chance and other will than his might
direct, how happy for him that he was indeed wooden; and, doing nothing,
could also see and suffer nothing! It is a distracted business.
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The weak position of the king seems unknown to any party.
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For his French Majesty, meanwhile, one of the worst things is that he can
get no hunting. Alas, no hunting henceforth; only a fatal being-hunted!
Scarcely, in the next June weeks, shall he taste again the joys of the
game-destroyer; in next June, and never more. He sends for his smith-tools;
gives, in the course of the day, official or ceremonial business
being ended, 'a few strokes of the file, quelques coups de lime'.
(Le
Château des Tuileries, ou récit, etc., par Roussel
(in Hist. Parl. iv. 195-219).)
Innocent brother mortal, why wert thou not an obscure substantial
maker of locks; but doomed in that other far-seen craft, to be a maker only
of world-follies, unrealities; things self destructive, which no mortal
hammering could rivet into coherence!
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Deprived of the hunting in Versailles, the King returns to his hobby of
lock-making. Carlyle wonders why a good lock maker should be such a bad king.
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Poor Louis is not without insight, nor even without the elements of will;
some sharpness of temper, spurting at times from a stagnating character.
If harmless inertness could save him, it were well; but he will slumber and
painfully dream, and to do aught is not given him.
Royalist Antiquarians
still shew the rooms where Majesty and suite, in these extraordinary
circumstances, had their lodging. Here sat the Queen; reading, — for she
had her library brought hither, though the King refused his; taking
vehement counsel of the vehement uncounselled; sorrowing over altered
times; yet with sure hope of better: in her young rosy Boy, has she not
the living emblem of hope! It is a murky, working sky; yet with golden
gleams — of dawn, or of deeper meteoric night? Here again this chamber, on
the other side of the main entrance, was the King's: here his Majesty
breakfasted, and did official work; here daily after breakfast he received
the Queen; sometimes in pathetic friendliness; sometimes in human
sulkiness, for flesh is weak; and, when questioned about business would
answer: "Madame, your business is with the children." Nay, Sire, were it
not better you, your Majesty's self, took the children? So asks impartial
History; scornful that the thicker vessel was not also the stronger;
pity-struck for the porcelain-clay
of humanity rather than for the tile-clay, —
though indeed both were broken!
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The king is almost feminine in accepting his disempowerment.
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So, however, in this Medicean Tuileries[85],
shall the French King and Queen
now sit, for one-and-forty months; and see a wild-fermenting France work
out its own destiny, and theirs. Months bleak, ungenial, of rapid
vicissitude; yet with a mild pale splendour, here and there: as of an
April that were leading to leafiest Summer; as of an October that led only
to everlasting Frost. Medicean Tuileries, how changed since it was a
peaceful Tile field! Or is the ground itself fate-stricken, accursed: an
Atreus' Palace[78];
for that Louvre window is still nigh, out of which a Capet,
whipt of the Furies, fired his signal of the Saint
Bartholomew![86]
Dark is
the way of the Eternal as mirrored in this world of Time: God's way is in
the sea, and His path in the great deep.
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The monarchy will achieve no more glory,
but at least it lives in the neighbourhood
where monarchy flourished.
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To believing Patriots, however, it is now clear, that the Constitution will
march, marcher, — had it once legs to stand on. Quick, then, ye Patriots,
bestir yourselves, and make it; shape legs for it!
In the Archêvechée, or
Archbishop's Palace, his Grace himself having fled; and afterwards in the
Riding-hall, named Manége, close on the Tuileries:
there does a National
Assembly apply itself to the miraculous work. Successfully, had there been
any heaven-scaling Prometheus among them; not successfully since there was
none! There, in noisy debate, for the sessions are occasionally
'scandalous,' and as many as three speakers have been seen in the Tribune
at once, — let us continue to fancy it wearing the slow months.
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The National Assembly also moves to Paris, settling in the
Salle de Manége. Carlyle will give a picture of its deliberations
towards a constitution.
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Tough, dogmatic, long of wind is Abbé
Maury?;
Ciceronian pathetic is
Cazalès?.
Keen-trenchant, on the other side, glitters a young
Barnave?;
abhorrent of sophistry; sheering, like keen Damascus sabre, all sophistry
asunder, — reckless what else he sheer with it. Simple seemest thou, O
solid Dutch-built
Pétion?;
if solid, surely dull. Nor lifegiving in that
tone of thine, livelier polemical
Rabaut?.
With ineffable serenity sniffs
great Sieyes?,
aloft, alone; his Constitution ye may babble over, ye may
mar, but can by no possibility mend: is not Polity a science he has
exhausted? Cool, slow, two military
Lameths?
are visible, with their
quality sneer, or demi-sneer; they shall gallantly refund their Mother's
Pension, when the
Red Book?
is produced; gallantly be wounded in duels. A
Marquis Toulongeon?,
whose Pen we yet thank, sits there; in stoical
meditative humour, oftenest silent, accepts what destiny will send.
Thouret?
and Parlementary
Duport?
produce mountains of Reformed Law; liberal,
Anglomaniac, available and unavailable. Mortals rise and fall. Shall
goose Gobel?,
for example, — or Göbel, for he is of Strasburg
German breed, be a Constitutional Archbishop?
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Carlyle introduces some of the key characters in the writing of the
constitution and the events that surrounded it.
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Alone of all men there, Mirabeau may begin to discern clearly whither all
this is tending. Patriotism, accordingly, regrets that his zeal seems to
be getting cool. In that famed Pentecost-Night of the Fourth of August,
when new Faith rose suddenly into miraculous fire, and old Feudality was
burnt up, men remarked that Mirabeau took no hand in it; that, in fact, he
luckily happened to be absent. But did he not defend the Veto, nay
Veto
Absolu; and tell vehement Barnave that six hundred irresponsible senators
would make of all tyrannies the insupportablest? Again, how anxious was he
that the King's Ministers should have seat and voice in the National
Assembly; — doubtless with an eye to being Minister himself! Whereupon the
National Assembly decides, what is very momentous, that no Deputy shall be
Minister; he, in his haughty stormful manner, advising us to make it, 'no
Deputy called Mirabeau.'
(Moniteur, Nos. 65, 86 (29th September, 7th
November, 1789).)
A man of perhaps inveterate Feudalisms; of stratagems;
too often visible leanings towards the Royalist side: a man suspect; whom
Patriotism will unmask! Thus, in these June days, when the question Who
shall have right to declare war? comes on, you hear hoarse Hawkers sound
dolefully through the streets, "Grand Treason of Count Mirabeau, price only
one sou;" — because he pleads that it shall be not the Assembly but the
King! Pleads; nay prevails: for in spite of the hoarse Hawkers, and an
endless Populace raised by them to the pitch even of 'Lanterne,'
he mounts
the Tribune next day; grim-resolute; murmuring aside to his friends that
speak of danger: "I know it: I must come hence either in triumph, or else
torn in fragments;" and it was in triumph that he came.
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Mirabeau stands up for the remnants of monarchy, arguing for a veto power
in the King; for the cabinet to be drawn from the legislature; and for the
royal right to declare war.
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A man of stout heart; whose popularity is not of the populace, 'pas
populacière;'
whom no clamour of unwashed mobs without doors, or of washed
mobs within, can scare from his way! Dumont remembers hearing him deliver
a Report on Marseilles; 'every word was interrupted on the part of the
Côté
Droit?
by abusive epithets; calumniator, liar, assassin, scoundrel
(scélérat):
Mirabeau pauses a moment, and, in a honeyed tone, addressing
the most furious, says: "I wait, Messieurs, till these amenities be
exhausted."' (Dumont, Souvenirs, p. 278.)
A man enigmatic, difficult to
unmask! For example, whence comes his money? Can the profit of a
Newspaper, sorely eaten into by Dame Le Jay; can this, and the eighteen
francs a-day your National Deputy has, be supposed equal to this
expenditure? House in the Chaussée d'Antin;
Country-house at Argenteuil;
splendours, sumptuosities, orgies; — living as if he had a mint! All
saloons barred against Adventurer Mirabeau, are flung wide open to King
Mirabeau, the cynosure of Europe, whom female France flutters to behold, —
though the Man Mirabeau is one and the same. As for money, one may
conjecture that Royalism furnishes it; which if Royalism do, will not the
same be welcome, as money always is to him?
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Since May, 1790, Mirabeau has been in the pay of the King as an advisor.
The amount was enough to let him live sumptuously.
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'Sold,' whatever Patriotism thinks, he cannot readily be: the spiritual
fire which is in that man; which shining through such confusions is
nevertheless Conviction, and makes him strong, and without which he had no
strength, — is not buyable nor saleable; in such transference of barter, it
would vanish and not be.
Perhaps 'paid and not sold, payé pas vendu:' as
poor Rivarol?,
in the unhappier converse way, calls himself 'sold and not
paid!' A man travelling, comet-like, in splendour and nebulosity, his wild
way; whom telescopic Patriotism may long watch, but, without higher
mathematics, will not make out. A questionable most blameable man; yet to
us the far notablest of all. With rich munificence, as we often say, in a
most blinkard, bespectacled, logic-chopping generation, Nature has gifted
this man with an eye. Welcome is his word, there where he speaks and
works; and growing ever welcomer; for it alone goes to the heart of the
business: logical cobwebbery shrinks itself together; and thou seest a
thing, how it is, how is may be worked with.
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Carlyle believes that the King's money did not change Mirabeau's politics;
that he was consistently the only pragmatist on the scene.
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Unhappily our National Assembly has much to do: a France to regenerate;
and France is short of so many requisites; short even of cash! These same
Finances give trouble enough; no choking of the Deficit; which gapes ever,
Give, give!
To appease the Deficit we venture on a hazardous step, sale of
the Clergy's Lands and superfluous Edifices; most hazardous. Nay, given
the sale, who is to buy them, ready-money having fled? Wherefore, on the
19th day of December, a paper-money of
'Assignats?,'
of Bonds secured, or
assigned,
on that Clerico-National Property, and unquestionable at least in
payment of that, — is decreed: the first of a long series of like financial
performances, which shall astonish mankind. So that now, while old rags
last, there shall be no lack of circulating medium; whether of commodities
to circulate thereon is another question. But, after all, does not this
Assignat business speak volumes for modern science? Bankruptcy, we may
say, was come, as the end of all Delusions needs must come: yet how
gently, in softening diffusion, in mild succession, was it hereby made to
fall; — like no all-destroying avalanche; like gentle showers of a powdery
impalpable snow, shower after shower, till all was indeed buried, and yet
little was destroyed that could not be replaced , be dispensed with! To
such length has modern machinery reached. Bankruptcy, we said, was great;
but indeed Money itself is a standing miracle.
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The crash of the economy is softened by the issuance of paper money backed
by confiscated church property.
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On the whole, it is a matter of endless difficulty, that of the Clergy.
Clerical property may be made the Nation's, and the Clergy hired servants
of the State; but if so, is it not an altered
Church?[87].
Adjustment enough,
of the most confused sort, has become unavoidable. Old landmarks, in any
sense, avail not in a new France. Nay literally, the very Ground is new
divided; your old party-coloured Provinces become new uniform
Departments,
Eighty-three in number[88];
— whereby, as in some sudden shifting of the Earth's
axis, no mortal knows his new latitude at once. The Twelve old Parlements
too, what is to be done with them? The old Parlements are declared to be
all 'in permanent vacation,' — till once the new equal-justice, of
Departmental Courts, National Appeal-Court, of elective Justices, Justices
of Peace, and other Thouret-and-Duport apparatus be got ready. They have
to sit there, these old Parlements, uneasily waiting; as it were, with the
rope round their neck; crying as they can, Is there none to deliver us?
But happily the answer being, None, none, they are a manageable class,
these Parlements. They can be bullied, even into silence; the Paris
Parliament, wiser than most, has never whimpered. They will and must sit
there; in such vacation as is fit; their Chamber of Vacation distributes in
the interim what little justice is going. With the rope round their neck,
their destiny may be succinct! On the 13th of November 1790, Mayor Bailly
shall walk to the Palais de Justice, few even heeding him; and with
municipal seal-stamp and a little hot wax, seal up the Parlementary
Paper-rooms, — and the dread Parlement of Paris pass away,
into Chaos, gently as
does a Dream! So shall the Parlements perish, succinctly; and innumerable
eyes be dry.
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Carlyle reviews a few of the major innovations of the Assembly:
nationalization of the Church, reform of national administration and
revamping of the system of justice.
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Not so the Clergy. For granting even that Religion were dead; that it had
died, half-centuries ago, with unutterable
Dubois?;
or emigrated lately, to
Alsace, with Necklace-Cardinal
Rohan?;
or that it now walked as goblin
revenant [back from the dead]
with Bishop Talleyrand of Autun; yet does not the Shadow of
Religion, the Cant of Religion, still linger? The Clergy have means and
material: means, of number, organization, social weight; a material, at
lowest, of public ignorance, known to be the mother of devotion. Nay,
withal, is it incredible that there might, in simple hearts, latent here
and there like gold grains in the mud-beach, still dwell some real Faith in
God, of so singular and tenacious a sort that even a Maury or a Talleyrand,
could still be the symbol for it? — Enough, and Clergy has strength, the
Clergy has craft and indignation. It is a most fatal business this of the
Clergy. A weltering hydra-coil, which the National Assembly has stirred up
about its ears; hissing, stinging; which cannot be appeased, alive; which
cannot be trampled dead! Fatal, from first to last! Scarcely after
fifteen months' debating, can a
Civil Constitution of the Clergy[89]
be so much
as got to paper; and then for getting it into reality? Alas, such Civil
Constitution is but an agreement to disagree. It divides France from end
to end, with a new split, infinitely complicating all the other splits; —
Catholicism, what of it there is left, with the Cant of Catholicism, raging
on the one side, and sceptic Heathenism on the other; both, by
contradiction , waxing fanatic. What endless jarring, of Refractory hated
Priests, and Constitutional despised ones; of tender consciences, like the
King's, and consciences hot-seared, like certain of his People's: the
whole to end in Feasts of Reason and a War of La Vendée!
So deep-seated is
Religion in the heart of man, and holds of all infinite passions. If the
dead echo of it still did so much, what could not the living voice of it
once do?
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The law-courts die quietly, but not so the Church. Religion will be one
of the polarizing issues of the Revolution.
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Finance and Constitution, Law and Gospel: this surely were work enough;
yet this is not all. In fact, the Ministry, and Necker himself whom a
brass inscription 'fastened by the people over his door-lintel' testifies
to be the 'Ministre adoré,'
are dwindling into clearer and clearer nullity.
Execution or legislation, arrangement or detail, from their nerveless
fingers all drops undone; all lights at last on the toiled shoulders of an
august Representative Body. Heavy-laden National Assembly! It has to hear
of innumerable fresh revolts, Brigand expeditions;
of Châteaus in the West,
especially of Charter-chests, Chartiers, set on fire; for there too the
overloaded Ass frightfully recalcitrates. Of Cities in the South full of
heats and jealousies; which will end in crossed sabres, Marseilles against
Toulon, and Carpentras beleaguered by Avignon; — such Royalist collision in
a career of Freedom; nay Patriot collision, which a mere difference of
velocity will bring about! Of a Jourdan Coup-tête, who has skulked
thitherward, from the claws of the Châtelet; and will raise whole
scoundrel-regiments.
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The collapse of the King's government has put executive and administrative
burdens on top of the legislative concerns of the Assembly. Increasingly
they must try to resolve violent disputes in the provinces.
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Also it has to hear of Royalist Camp of Jalès:
Jalès mountain-girdled
Plain, amid the rocks of the Cevennes; whence Royalism, as is feared and
hoped, may dash down like a mountain deluge, and submerge France! A
singular thing this camp of Jalés; existing mostly on paper. For the
Soldiers at Jalès, being peasants or National Guards,
were in heart sworn
Sansculottes; and all that the Royalist Captains could do was, with false
words, to keep them, or rather keep the report of them, drawn up there,
visible to all imaginations, for a terror and a sign, — if peradventure
France might be reconquered by theatrical machinery, by the
picture of a
Royalist Army done to the life!
(Dampmartin, Evènemens, i. 208.) Not till
the third summer was this portent, burning out by fits and then fading, got
finally extinguished; was the old Castle of Jalès,
no Camp being visible to
the bodily eye, got blown asunder by some National Guards.
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Some threats, like the largely mythical army of Royalists at Jalès,
were imaginary, but occupied the Assembly's time and energy.
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Also it has to hear not only of Brissot and his Friends of the Blacks,
but
by and by of a whole St. Domingo blazing skyward; blazing in literal fire,
and in far worse metaphorical; beaconing the nightly main. Also of the
shipping interest, and the landed-interest, and all manner of interests,
reduced to distress. Of Industry every where manacled, bewildered; and
only Rebellion thriving. Of sub-officers, soldiers and sailors in mutiny
by land and water. Of soldiers, at Nanci, as we shall see, needing to be
cannonaded by a brave
Bouillé?.
Of sailors, nay the very galley-slaves, at
Brest, needing also to be cannonaded; but with no
Bouillé
to do it. For
indeed, to say it in a word, in those days there was no King
in Israel, and
every man did that which was right in his own eyes. [Judges 17:6]
(See Deux Amis, iii.
c. 14; iv. c. 2, 3, 4, 7, 9, 14. Expédition
des Volontaires de Brest sur
Lannion; Les Lyonnais Sauveurs des Dauphinois; Massacre au Mans; Troubles
du Maine (Pamphlets and Excerpts, in Hist. Parl. iii. 251; iv. 163-168),
etc.)
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The Assembly had to deal with events as diverse as the revolt of the
slaves in Haiti, industrial disputes, and insurrections in military ranks.
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Such things has an august National Assembly to hear of, as it goes on
regenerating France. Sad and stern: but what remedy? Get the
Constitution ready; and all men will swear to it: for do not 'Addresses of
adhesion' arrive by the cartload? In this manner, by Heaven's blessing,
and a Constitution got ready, shall the bottomless fire-gulf be vaulted in,
with rag-paper; and Order will wed Freedom, and live with her there, — till
it grow too hot for them. O Côté
Gauche?,
worthy are ye, as the adhesive
Addresses generally say, to 'fix the regards of the Universe;' the regards
of this one poor Planet, at lowest!—
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Carlyle sneers at the idea that order can be established by a synthetic
constitution.
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Nay, it must be owned, the Côté Droit makes a still madder figure. An
irrational generation; irrational, imbecile, and with the vehement
obstinacy characteristic of that; a generation which will not learn.
Falling Bastilles, Insurrections of Women, thousands of smoking
Manorhouses, a country bristling with no crop but that of Sansculottic
steel: these were tolerably didactic lessons; but them they have not
taught. There are still men, of whom it was of old written, Bray them in a
mortar![90]
Or, in milder language, They have wedded their delusions: fire
nor steel, nor any sharpness of Experience, shall sever the bond; till
death do us part! Of such may the Heavens have mercy; for the Earth, with
her rigorous Necessity, will have none.
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And the right-wingers do not seem interested in
modifying the organic one.
|
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Admit, at the same time, that it was most natural. Man lives by Hope:
Pandora when her box of gods'-gifts flew all out, and became gods'-curses,
still retained Hope. How shall an irrational mortal, when his high-place
is never so evidently pulled down, and he, being irrational, is left
resourceless, — part with the belief that it will be rebuilt? It would make
all so straight again; it seems so unspeakably desirable; so reasonable, —
would you but look at it aright! For, must not the thing which was
continue to be; or else the solid World dissolve? Yes, persist, O
infatuated Sansculottes of France! Revolt against constituted Authorities;
hunt out your rightful Seigneurs, who at bottom so loved you, and readily
shed their blood for you, — in country's battles as at
Rossbach? and
elsewhere; and, even in preserving game, were preserving you, could ye but
have understood it: hunt them out, as if they were wild wolves; set fire
to their Châteaus and Chartiers as to wolf-dens;
and what then? Why, then
turn every man his hand against his fellow! In confusion, famine,
desolation, regret the days that are gone; rueful recall them, recall us
with them. To repentant prayers we will not be deaf.
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The conservatives hope that all the uproar will burn itself out and
somehow leave things as they were before.
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So, with dimmer or clearer consciousness, must the Right Side reason and
act. An inevitable position perhaps; but a most false one for them. Evil,
be thou our good: this henceforth must virtually be their prayer. The
fiercer the effervescence grows, the sooner will it pass; for after all it
is but some mad effervescence; the World is solid, and cannot dissolve.
|
Carlyle sneers at the conservative view, too.
|
|
For the rest, if they have any positive industry, it is that of plots, and
backstairs conclaves. Plots which cannot be executed; which are mostly
theoretic on their part; — for which nevertheless this and the other
practical Sieur
Augeard?,
Sieur Maillebois,
Sieur Bonne Savardin,
gets into
trouble, gets imprisoned, and escapes with difficulty. Nay there is a poor
practical
Chevalier Favras?
who, not without some passing reflex on Monsieur
himself, gets hanged for them, amid loud uproar of the world. Poor Favras,
he keeps dictating his last will at the 'Hôtel-de-Ville,
through the whole
remainder of the day,' a weary February day; offers to reveal secrets, if
they will save him; handsomely declines since they will not; then dies, in
the flare of torchlight, with politest composure; remarking, rather than
exclaiming, with outspread hands: "People, I die innocent; pray for me."
(See Deux Amis, iv. c. 14, 7; Hist. Parl. vi. 384.)
Poor Favras; — type of
so much that has prowled indefatigable over France, in days now ending;
and, in freer field, might have earned instead of prowling, — to thee it is
no theory!
|
There are a few plots to spirit the King away from Paris. For the most
part they are dealt with mildly, although Favras is condemned and hung.
|
|
In the Senate-house again, the attitude of the Right Side is that of calm
unbelief. Let an august National Assembly make a Fourth-of-August
Abolition of Feudality; declare the Clergy State-servants who shall have
wages; vote Suspensive Vetos, new Law-Courts; vote or decree what contested
thing it will; have it responded to from the four corners of France, nay
get King's Sanction, and what other Acceptance were conceivable, — the Right
Side, as we find, persists, with imperturbablest tenacity, in considering,
and ever and anon shews that it still considers, all these so-called
Decrees as mere temporary whims, which indeed stand on paper, but in
practice and fact are not, and cannot be.
Figure the brass head of an Abbé
Maury?
flooding forth Jesuitic eloquence in this strain; dusky
d'Espréménil?,
Barrel Mirabeau?
(probably in liquor), and enough of others, cheering him
from the Right; and, for example, with what visage a seagreen Robespierre
eyes him from the Left. And how Sieyes ineffably sniffs on him, or does
not deign to sniff; and how the Galleries groan in spirit, or bark rabid on
him: so that to escape the Lanterne, on stepping forth, he needs presence
of mind, and a pair of pistols in his girdle! For he is one of the
toughest of men.
|
The right wing does nothing, says much, and goes around armed.
|
|
Here indeed becomes notable one great difference between our two kinds of
civil war; between the modern lingual or Parliamentary-logical kind, and
the ancient, or manual kind, in the steel battle-field; — much to the
disadvantage of the former. In the manual kind, where you front your foe
with drawn weapon, one right stroke is final; for, physically speaking,
when the brains are out the man does honestly die, and trouble you no more.
But how different when it is with arguments you fight! Here no victory yet
definable can be considered as final. Beat him down, with Parliamentary
invective, till sense be fled; cut him in two, hanging one half in this
dilemma-horn, the other on that; blow the brains or thinking-faculty quite
out of him for the time: it skills not; he rallies and revives on the
morrow; to-morrow he repairs his golden fires! The thing that will
logically extinguish him is perhaps still a desideratum in Constitutional
civilisation. For how, till a man know, in some measure, at what point he
becomes logically defunct, can Parliamentary Business be carried on, and
Talk cease or slake?
|
Carlyle prefers arms to debate as the way to fight civil war. He wonders
if it might be more efficient in all political cases.
|
|
Doubtless it was some feeling of this difficulty; and the clear insight how
little such knowledge yet existed in the French Nation, new in the
Constitutional career, and how defunct Aristocrats would continue to walk
for unlimited periods, as Partridge the Almanack-maker
did[91],
— that had sunk
into the deep mind of People's-friend Marat, an eminently practical mind;
and had grown there, in that richest putrescent soil, into the most
original plan of action ever submitted to a People. Not yet has it grown;
but it has germinated, it is growing; rooting itself into Tartarus,
branching towards Heaven: the second season hence, we shall see it risen
out of the bottomless Darkness, full-grown, into disastrous Twilight, — a
Hemlock-tree, great as the world; on or under whose boughs all the
People's-friends of the world may lodge. 'Two hundred and sixty thousand
Aristocrat heads:' that is the precisest calculation, though one would not
stand on a few hundreds; yet we never rise as high as the round three
hundred thousand. Shudder at it, O People; but it is as true as that ye
yourselves, and your People's-friend, are alive. These prating Senators of
yours hover ineffectual on the barren letter, and will never save the
Revolution. A
Cassandra?-Marat?
cannot do it, with his single shrunk arm;
but with a few determined men it were possible. "Give me," said the
People's-friend, in his cold way, when young
Barbaroux?,
once his pupil in a
course of what was called Optics, went to see him, "Give me two hundred
Naples Bravoes, armed each with a good dirk, and a muff on his left arm by
way of shield: with them I will traverse France, and accomplish the
Revolution."
(Mémoires de Barbaroux (Paris, 1822), p. 57.)
Nay, be brave,
young Barbaroux; for thou seest, there is no jesting in those rheumy eyes;
in that soot-bleared figure, most earnest of created things; neither indeed
is there madness, of the strait-waistcoat sort.
|
Already there is the idea that the revolution cannot be maintained by
words alone.
|
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Such produce shall the Time ripen in cavernous Marat, the man forbid;
living in Paris cellars, lone as fanatic Anchorite in his Thebaid;
say, as
far-seen Simon on his Pillar[92],
— taking peculiar views therefrom. Patriots
may smile; and, using him as bandog [watch dog]
now to be muzzled, now to be let bark,
name him, as Desmoulins does, 'Maximum of Patriotism' and 'Cassandra-Marat:' but were it not singular if this dirk-and-muff plan of his (with
superficial modifications) proved to be precisely the plan adopted?
|
Marat, sometimes called a Cassandra, may be a prophet — of violence.
|
|
After this manner, in these circumstances, do august Senators regenerate
France. Nay, they are, in very deed, believed
to be regenerating it; on
account of which great fact, main fact of their history, the wearied eye
can never be permitted wholly to ignore them.
|
The Assembly is important because people think it important, even though
it is ultimately irrelevant.
|
|
But looking away now from these precincts of the Tuileries, where
Constitutional Royalty, let Lafayette water it as he will, languishes too
like a cut branch; and august Senators are perhaps at bottom only
perfecting their 'theory of defective verbs,' — how does the young Reality,
young Sansculottism thrive? The attentive observer can answer: It thrives
bravely; putting forth new buds; expanding the old buds into leaves, into
boughs. Is not French Existence, as before, most prurient, all
loosened,
most nutrient for it? Sansculottism has the property of growing by what
other things die of: by agitation, contention, disarrangement; nay in a
word, by what is the symbol and fruit of all these: Hunger.
|
The lower classes are still discontent and hungry.
|
|
In such a France as this, Hunger, as we have remarked, can hardly fail.
The Provinces, the Southern Cities feel it in their turn; and what it
brings: Exasperation, preternatural Suspicion. In Paris some halcyon days
of abundance followed the Menadic Insurrection, with its Versailles
grain-carts, and recovered Restorer of Liberty;
but they could not continue. The
month is still October when famishing Saint-Antoine, in a moment of
passion, seizes a poor Baker, innocent 'François the Baker;'
(21st October, 1789 (Moniteur, No. 76).)
and hangs him, in Constantinople
wise[93]; — but even
this, singular as it my seem, does not cheapen bread! Too clear it is, no
Royal bounty, no Municipal dexterity can adequately feed a
Bastille-destroying Paris. Wherefore, on view of the hanged Baker,
Constitutionalism in sorrow and anger demands
'Loi Martiale,' a kind of
Riot Act; — and indeed gets it, most readily, almost before the sun goes
down.[94]
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Lack of bread remains a problem in the provinces and in Paris.
|
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This is that famed Martial law, with its Red Flag, its
'Drapeau Rouge:' in
virtue of which Mayor Bailly, or any Mayor, has but henceforth to hang out
that new Oriflamme [banner of St. Denis]
of his; then to read or mumble something about the
King's peace; and, after certain pauses, serve any undispersing Assemblage
with musket-shot, or whatever shot will disperse it. A decisive Law; and
most just on one proviso: that all Patrollotism be of God, and all
mob-assembling be of the Devil; — otherwise not so just. Mayor Bailly be
unwilling to use it! Hang not out that new Oriflamme, flame
not of gold
but of the want of gold! The thrice-blessed Revolution is done, thou
thinkest? If so it will be well with thee.
|
Unrest is serious enough to lead to legislation of special powers to suppress
rioting in cities.
|
|
But now let no mortal say henceforth that an august National Assembly wants
riot: all it ever wanted was riot enough to balance Court-plotting; all it
now wants, of Heaven or of Earth, is to get its theory of defective verbs
perfected.
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This paragraph is available to anyone who thinks it worthwhile to satirize
Carlyle.
|
|
With famine and a Constitutional theory of defective verbs going on, all
other excitement is conceivable. A universal shaking and sifting of French
Existence this is: in the course of which, for one thing, what a multitude
of low-lying figures are sifted to the top, and set busily to work there!
|
One consequence of the vacuum of power is that new men rise to prominence.
|
|
Dogleech Marat?,
now for-seen as Simon Stylites, we already know; him and
others, raised aloft. The mere sample, these, of what is coming, of what
continues coming, upwards from the realm of Night! —
Chaumette?,
by and by
Anaxagoras Chaumette, one already descries: mellifluous in street-groups;
not now a sea-boy on the high and giddy mast: a mellifluous tribune of the
common people, with long curling locks, on bourne-stone of the
thoroughfares; able sub-editor too; who shall rise — to the very gallows.
Clerk Tallien?,
he also is become sub-editor; shall become able editor; and
more.
Bibliopolic Momoro?,
Typographic Prudhomme?
see new trades opening.
Collot d'Herbois, tearing a passion to rags, pauses on the Thespian boards;
listens, with that black bushy head, to the sound of the world's drama:
shall the Mimetic become Real? Did ye hiss him, O men of Lyons?
(Buzot,
Mémoires (Paris, 1823), p. 90.) Better had ye clapped!
|
Carlyle introduces some of the new men.
|
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Happy now, indeed, for all manner of mimetic, half-original men! Tumid
blustering, with more or less of sincerity, which need not be entirely
sincere, yet the sincerer the better, is like to go far. Shall we say, the
Revolution-element works itself rarer and rarer; so that only lighter and
lighter bodies will float in it; till at last the mere blown-bladder is
your only swimmer? Limitation of mind, then vehemence, promptitude,
audacity, shall all be available; to which add only these two: cunning and
good lungs. Good fortune must be presupposed. Accordingly, of all classes
the rising one, we observe, is now the Attorney class: witness
Bazires?,
Carriers?,
Fouquier-Tinvilles?,
Bazoche-Captain
Bourdons?:
more than enough.
Such figures shall Night, from her wonder-bearing bosom, emit; swarm after
swarm. Of another deeper and deepest swarm, not yet dawned on the
astonished eye; of pilfering Candle-snuffers, Thief-valets, disfrocked
Capuchins, and so many
Héberts?,
Henriots?,
Ronsins?,
Rossignols?,
let us, as
long as possible, forbear speaking.
|
Carlyle sees a louder and less intelligent crop of politicians on the
rise, many of them lawyers, and foreshadows the coming of real riff-raff.
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Thus, over France, all stirs that has what the Physiologists call
irritability in it[95]:
how much more all wherein irritability has perfected
itself into vitality; into actual vision, and force that can will! All
stirs; and if not in Paris, flocks thither. Great and greater waxes
President Danton?
in his
Cordeliers?
Section; his rhetorical tropes are all
'gigantic:' energy flashes from his black brows, menaces in his athletic
figure, rolls in the sound of his voice 'reverberating from the domes;'
this man also, like Mirabeau, has a natural eye, and begins to see whither
Constitutionalism is tending, though with a wish in it different from
Mirabeau's.
|
Danton will find himself in front of the next revolutionary riot.
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|
Remark, on the other hand, how General
Dumouriez?
has quitted Normandy and
the Cherbourg Breakwater, to come — whither we may guess. It is his second
or even third trial at Paris, since this New Era began; but now it is in
right earnest, for he has quitted all else. Wiry, elastic unwearied man;
whose life was but a battle and a march! No, not a creature of
Choiseul's?;
"the creature of God and of my sword," — he fiercely answered in old days.
Overfalling Corsican batteries, in the deadly fire-hail; wriggling
invincible from under his horse, at Closterkamp of the Netherlands, though
tethered with 'crushed stirrup-iron and nineteen wounds;' tough, minatory,
standing at bay, as forlorn hope, on the skirts of Poland; intriguing,
battling in cabinet and field; roaming far out, obscure, as King's spial [spy],
or sitting sealed up, enchanted in Bastille; fencing, pamphleteering,
scheming and struggling from the very birth of him,
(Dumouriez, Mémoires,
i. 28, etc.) — the man has come thus far.
How repressed, how irrepressible!
Like some incarnate spirit in prison, which indeed he was; hewing on
granite walls for deliverance; striking fire flashes from them. And now
has the general earthquake rent his cavern too? Twenty years younger, what
might he not have done! But his hair has a shade of gray: his way of
thought is all fixed, military. He can grow no further, and the new world
is in such growth. We will name him, on the whole, one of Heaven's Swiss;
without faith; wanting above all things work, work on any side.
Work also
is appointed him; and he will do it.
|
Dumouriez offers his Nantes garrison to protect the Assembly and settles
in Paris.
|
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Not from over France only are the unrestful flocking towards Paris; but
from all sides of Europe. Where the carcase is, thither will the eagles
gather. Think how many a Spanish
Guzman?,
Martinico Fournier?
named 'Fournier
l'Americain,' Engineer
Miranda?
from the very Andes, were flocking
or had flocked! Walloon
Pereyra?
might boast of the strangest parentage:
him, they say, Prince
Kaunitz?
the Diplomatist heedlessly dropped; like
ostrich-egg, to be hatched of Chance — into an ostrich-eater!
Jewish or
German Freys do business in the great Cesspool of Agio;
which Cesspool this
Assignat?-fiat
has quickened, into a Mother of dead dogs.
Swiss Claviere?
could found no Socinian Genevese Colony in Ireland; but he paused, years
ago, prophetic before the Minister's Hotel at Paris; and said, it was borne
on his mind that he one day was to be Minister, and laughed.
(Dumont, Souvenirs sur Mirabeau, p. 399.)
Swiss Pache?,
on the other hand, sits
sleekheaded, frugal; the wonder of his own alley, and even of neighbouring
ones, for humility of mind, and a thought deeper than most men's: sit
there,
Tartuffe?,
till wanted! Ye Italian Dufournys, Flemish Prolys, flit
hither all ye bipeds of prey! Come whosesoever head is hot; thou of mind
ungoverned, be it chaos as of undevelopment or chaos as of ruin; the man
who cannot get known, the man who is too well known; if thou have any
vendible faculty, nay if thou have but edacity and loquacity, come! They
come; with hot unutterabilities in their heart; as Pilgrims towards a
miraculous shrine. Nay how many come as vacant Strollers, aimless, of whom
Europe is full merely towards something! For benighted fowls, when you
beat their bushes, rush towards any light. Thus Frederick Baron
Trenck?
too
is here; mazed, purblind, from the cells of Magdeburg; Minotauric cells,
and his Ariadne lost! Singular to say, Trenck, in these years, sells wine;
not indeed in bottle, but in wood.
|
Riff-raff and opportunists from all over the world are drawn to France.
|
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Nor is our England without her missionaries. She has her live-saving
Needham; (A trustworthy gentleman writes to me, three years
ago, with a feeling which I cannot but respect, that his Father, "the
late Admiral Nesham" (Not Needham as the French Journalists gave it)
is the Englishman meant, and furthermore that the sword is "not rusted at
all," but still lies, with the due memory attached to it, in his (the son's)
possession, at Plymouth, in a clear state. (Note of 1857.))
to whom was solemnly presented a 'civic sword,' — long since rusted
into nothingness. Her
Paine?:
rebellious Staymaker; unkempt; who feels
that he, a single Needleman, did by his 'Common Sense' Pamphlet, free
America; — that he can and will free all this World; perhaps even the other.
Price-Stanhope Constitutional Association sends over to congratulate;
(Moniteur, 10 Novembre, 7 Decembre, 1789.)
welcomed by National Assembly,
though they are but a London Club; whom Burke and Toryism eye
askance.[96]
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There are English sympathizers, but few except Paine go to France.
|
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On thee too, for country's sake, O Chevalier John Paul, be a word spent, or
misspent! In faded naval uniform, Paul Jones lingers visible here; like a
wine-skin from which the wine is all drawn. Like the ghost of himself!
Low is his once loud bruit; scarcely audible, save, with extreme tedium in
ministerial ante-chambers; in this or the other charitable dining-room,
mindful of the past. What changes; culminatings and declinings! Not now,
poor Paul, thou lookest wistful over the Solway brine, by the foot of
native Criffel, into blue mountainous Cumberland, into blue Infinitude;
environed with thrift, with humble friendliness; thyself, young fool,
longing to be aloft from it, or even to be away from it. Yes, beyond that
sapphire Promontory, which men name St. Bees, which is not sapphire either,
but dull sandstone, when one gets close to it, there is a world. Which
world thou too shalt taste of! — From yonder White Haven rise his
smoke-clouds; ominous though ineffectual. Proud Forth quakes at his bellying
sails; had not the wind suddenly shifted. Flamborough reapers, homegoing,
pause on the hill-side: for what sulphur-cloud is that that defaces the
sleek sea; sulphur-cloud spitting streaks of fire? A sea cockfight it is,
and of the hottest; where British Serapis and French-American Bon Homme
Richard do lash and throttle each other, in their fashion; and lo the
desperate valour has suffocated the deliberate, and Paul Jones too is of
the Kings of the Sea!.
|
John Paul Jones ends his days in revolutionary Paris.
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The Euxine [Black Sea],
the Meotian waters felt thee next, and long-skirted Turks, O
Paul; and thy fiery soul has wasted itself in thousand contradictions; — to
no purpose. For, in far lands, with scarlet Nassau-Siegens, with sinful
Imperial Catherines, is not the heart-broken, even as at home with the
mean? Poor Paul! hunger and dispiritment track thy sinking footsteps:
once or at most twice, in this Revolution-tumult the figure of thee
emerges; mute, ghost-like, as 'with stars dim-twinkling through.' And
then, when the light is gone quite out, a National Legislature grants
'ceremonial funeral!' As good had been the natural Presbyterian Kirk-bell,
and six feet of Scottish earth, among the dust of thy loved ones. — Such
world lay beyond the Promontory of St. Bees. Such is the life of sinful
mankind here below.[97]
|
Carlyle offers a left-handed tribute to Jones.
|
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But of all strangers, far the notablest for us is Baron Jean Baptiste de
Clootz?;
— or, dropping baptisms and feudalisms, World-Citizen Anacharsis
Clootz, from Cleves. Him mark, judicious Reader. Thou hast known his
Uncle, sharp-sighted thorough-going
Cornelius de Pauw?,
who mercilessly cuts
down cherished illusions; and of the finest antique Spartans, will make
mere modern cutthroat Mainots. (De Pauw,
Recherches sur les Grecs, etc.)
The like stuff is in Anacharsis: hot metal; full of scoriae, which should
and could have been smelted out, but which will not. He has wandered over
this terraqueous Planet; seeking, one may say, the Paradise we lost long
ago. He has seen English Burke; has been seen of the Portugal Inquisition;
has roamed, and fought, and written; is writing, among other things,
'Evidences of the Mahometan Religion.'
But now, like his Scythian adoptive
godfather, he finds himself in the Paris Athens; surely, at last, the haven
of his soul. A dashing man, beloved at Patriotic dinner-tables; with
gaiety, nay with humour; headlong, trenchant, of free purse; in suitable
costume; though what mortal ever more despised costumes? Under all
costumes Anacharsis seeks the man; not Stylites Marat will more freely
trample costumes, if they hold no man. This is the faith of Anacharsis:
That there is a Paradise discoverable; that all costumes ought to hold men.
O Anacharsis, it is a headlong, swift-going faith. Mounted thereon,
meseems, thou art bound hastily for the City of Nowhere;
and wilt arrive!
At best, we may say, arrive in good riding attitude; which indeed is
something.
|
Carlyle singles out the Prussian Cloots, for his idealism it seems.
|
|
So many new persons, and new things, have come to occupy this France. Her
old Speech and Thought, and Activity which springs from those, are all
changing; fermenting towards unknown issues. To the dullest peasant, as he
sits sluggish, overtoiled, by his evening hearth, one idea has come: that
of Châteaus burnt; of Châteaus combustible.
How altered all Coffeehouses,
in Province or Capital! The Ante de
Procope?
has now other questions than
the Three Stagyrite Unities to settle; not theatre-controversies, but a
world-controversy: there, in the ancient pigtail mode, or with modern
Brutus' heads, do well-frizzed logicians hold hubbub, and Chaos umpire
sits. The ever-enduring Melody of Paris Saloons has got a new ground-tone:
ever-enduring; which has been heard, and by the listening Heaven too, since
Julian the Apostate's time and earlier; mad now as formerly.
|
Every thing is new in France; but everything is groundless.
|
|
|
|
Ex-Censor Suard?,
Ex-Censor, for we have freedom of the Press; he may be
seen there; impartial, even neutral. Tyrant
Grimm?
rolls large eyes, over a
questionable coming Time.
Atheist Naigeon?,
beloved disciple of Diderot,
crows, in his small difficult way, heralding glad dawn.
(Naigeon:
Addresse à l'Assemblée Nationale (Paris, 1790) sur la
liberté des opinions.)
But, on the other hand, how many
Morellets?,
Marmontels?,
who had
sat all their life hatching Philosophe eggs, cackle now, in a state
bordering on distraction, at the brood they have brought out!
(See
Marmontel, Mémoires, passim; Morellet, Mémoires, etc.)
It was so delightful
to have one's Philosophe Theorem demonstrated, crowned in the saloons: and
now an infatuated people will not continue speculative, but have Practice?
|
The few old philosophes still breathing may be having a final laugh in the
cafés.
|
|
There also observe Preceptress
Genlis?,
or Sillery, or Sillery-Genlis, — for
our husband is both Count and Marquis, and we have more than one title.
Pretentious, frothy; a puritan yet creedless; darkening counsel by words
without wisdom! For, it is in that thin element of the Sentimentalist and
Distinguished-Female that Sillery-Genlis works; she would gladly be
sincere, yet can grow no sincerer than sincere-cant: sincere-cant of many
forms, ending in the devotional form. For the present, on a neck still of
moderate whiteness, she wears as jewel a miniature Bastille, cut on mere
sandstone, but then actual Bastille sandstone. M. le Marquis is one of
d'Orleans's errandmen; in National Assembly, and elsewhere. Madame, for
her part, trains up a youthful d'Orleans generation in what superfinest
morality one can; gives meanwhile rather enigmatic account of fair
Mademoiselle Pamela, the Daughter whom she has adopted. Thus she, in
Palais Royal saloon; — whither, we remark, d'Orleans himself, spite of
Lafayette, has returned from that English 'mission' of his: surely no
pleasant mission: for the English would not speak to him; and Saint Hannah
More?
of England, so unlike Saint Sillery-Genlis of France, saw him shunned,
in Vauxhall Gardens, like one pest-struck, (Hannah
More's Life and
Correspondence, ii. c. 5.)
and his red-blue impassive visage waxing hardly
a shade bluer.
|
Carlyle introduces Madame de Genlis and compares her unfavorably
to Hannah More. He gloats at
the rude reception her husband received in England.
|
|
As for Constitutionalism, with its National Guards, it is doing what it
can; and has enough to do: it must, as ever, with one hand wave
persuasively, repressing Patriotism; and keep the other clenched to menace
Royalty plotters. A most delicate task; requiring tact.
|
The Constituent Assembly must maintain order, suppress reaction and make a
constitution at the same time.
|
|
Thus, if People's-friend
Marat?
has to-day his writ of 'prise de corps,
or
seizure of body,' served on him, and dives out of sight, tomorrow he is
left at large; or is even encouraged, as a sort of
bandog [watch dog]
whose baying may
be useful. President
Danton?,
in open Hall, with reverberating voice,
declares that, in a case like Marat's, "force may be resisted by force."
Whereupon the Châtelet serves Danton also with a
writ; — which, however, as
the whole Cordeliers District responds to it, what Constable will be prompt
to execute? Twice more, on new occasions, does the
Châtelet?
launch its
writ; and twice more in vain: the body of Danton cannot be seized by
Châtelet; he unseized, should he even fly for a season, shall behold the
Châtelet itself flung into limbo.
|
This situation leads to inconsistent, even arbitrary, enforcement of laws.
|
|
Municipality and Brissot, meanwhile, are far on with their Municipal
Constitution. The Sixty Districts shall become Forty-eight
Sections; much
shall be adjusted, and Paris have its Constitution. A Constitution wholly
Elective; as indeed all French Government shall and must be. And yet, one
fatal element has been introduced: that of citoyen actif.
No man who does
not pay the marc d'argent,
or yearly tax equal to three days' labour, shall
be other than a passive citizen: not the slightest vote for him; were he
acting, all the year round,
with sledge hammer, with forest-levelling axe!
Unheard of! cry Patriot Journals. Yes truly, my Patriot Friends, if
Liberty, the passion and prayer of all men's souls, means Liberty to send
your fifty-thousandth part of a new Tongue-fencer into National
Debating-club, then, be the gods witness, ye are hardly entreated. Oh, if in
National Palaver (as the Africans name it), such blessedness is verily
found, what tyrant would deny it to Son of Adam! Nay, might there not be a
Female Parliament too, with 'screams from the Opposition benches,' and 'the
honourable Member borne out in hysterics?' To a Children's Parliament
would I gladly consent; or even lower if ye wished it. Beloved Brothers!
Liberty, one might fear, is actually, as the ancient wise men said, of
Heaven. On this Earth, where, thinks the enlightened public, did a brave
little Dame de Staal (not Necker's Daughter, but a far shrewder than she)
find the nearest approach to Liberty? After mature computation, cool as
Dilworth's, her answer is, In the Bastille. (See
De Staal: Mémoires
(Paris, 1821), i. 169-280.) "Of Heaven?" answer many, asking.
Woe that
they should ask; for that is the very misery! "Of Heaven" means much;
share in the National Palaver it may, or may as probably not mean.
|
The Brissotin Constitution of Paris, organizing into 48 sections, is put
in effect. It limits suffrage to those who pay a poll tax. Carlyle scoffs
at the idea that a wider electorate would be any better.
|
|
One Sansculottic bough that cannot fail to flourish is Journalism. The
voice of the People being the voice of God, shall not such divine voice
make itself heard? To the ends of France; and in as many dialects as when
the first great Babel was to be built!
Some loud as the lion; some small
as the sucking dove. Mirabeau himself has his instructive Journal or
Journals, with Geneva hodmen working in them; and withal has quarrels
enough with Dame le Jay [his mistress],
his Female Bookseller, so ultra-compliant
otherwise. (See Dumont: Souvenirs, 6.)
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There is a great proliferation of
newspapers[97.5].
|
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King's-friend
Royou?
still prints himself.
Barrère?
sheds tears of loyal
sensibility in Break of Day Journal, though with declining sale.
But why
is Fréron?
so hot, democratic; Fréron, the King's-friend's Nephew? He has
it by kind, that heat of his: wasp Fréron begot him;
Voltaire's Frélon;
who fought stinging, while sting and poison-bag were left, were it only as
Reviewer, and over Printed Waste-paper. Constant, illuminative, as the
nightly lamplighter, issues the useful Moniteur, for it is now become
diurnal: with facts and few commentaries; official, safe in the middle: —
its able Editors sunk long since, recoverably or irrecoverably, in deep
darkness. Acid
Loustalot?,
with his 'vigour,' as of young sloes, shall
never ripen, but die untimely: his
Prudhomme?,
however, will not let that
Révolutions de Paris die;
but edit it himself, with much else, — dull-blustering Printer though he be.
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Carlyle comments on a few of the papers and their publishers. The
Moniteur was a major source of Carlyle's information about this period.
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Of Cassandra-Marat?
we have spoken often; yet the most surprising truth
remains to be spoken: that he actually does not want sense; but, with
croaking gelid throat, croaks out masses of the truth, on several things.
Nay sometimes, one might almost fancy he had a perception of humour, and
were laughing a little, far down in his inner man.
Camille?
is wittier than
ever, and more outspoken, cynical; yet sunny as ever. A light melodious
creature; 'born,' as he shall yet say with bitter tears, 'to write verses;'
light Apollo, so clear, soft-lucent, in this war of the Titans, wherein he
shall not conquer!
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Carlyle contrasts the dense and closely-argued journal of Marat with the
lighter one of Desmoulins.
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Folded and hawked Newspapers exist in all countries; but, in such a
Journalistic element as this of France, other and stranger sorts are to be
anticipated. What says the English reader to a Journal-Affiche, Placard
Journal; legible to him that has no halfpenny; in bright prismatic colours,
calling the eye from afar? Such, in the coming months, as Patriot
Associations, public and private, advance, and can subscribe funds, shall
plenteously hang themselves out: leaves,
limed leaves, to catch what they
can! The very Government shall have its Pasted Journal;
Louvet?,
busy yet
with a new 'charming romance,' shall write Sentinelles,
and post them with
effect; nay
Bertrand de
Moleville?,
in his extremity, shall still more
cunningly try it. (See Bertrand-Moleville: Mémoires,
ii. 100, etc.) Great
is Journalism. Is not every Able Editor a Ruler of the World, being a
persuader of it; though self-elected, yet sanctioned, by the sale of his
Numbers? Whom indeed the world has the readiest method of deposing, should
need be: that of merely doing nothing to him; which ends in starvation!
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Opinion and news is everywhere, even stuck on the walls.
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Nor esteem it small what those Bill-stickers had to do in Paris: above
Three Score of them: all with their crosspoles, haversacks, pastepots; nay
with leaden badges, for the Municipality licenses them. A Sacred College,
properly of World-rulers' Heralds, though not respected as such, in an Era
still incipient and raw. They made the walls of Paris didactic, suasive,
with an ever fresh Periodical Literature, wherein he that ran might read:
Placard Journals, Placard Lampoons, Municipal Ordinances, Royal
Proclamations; the whole other or vulgar Placard-department super-added, —
or omitted from contempt! What unutterable things the stone-walls spoke,
during these five years! But it is all gone; To-day swallowing Yesterday,
and then being in its turn swallowed of To-morrow, even as Speech ever is.
Nay what, O thou immortal Man of Letters, is Writing itself but Speech
conserved for a time? The Placard Journal conserved it for one day; some
Books conserve it for the matter of ten years; nay some for three thousand:
but what then? Why, then, the years being all run, it also dies, and the
world is rid of it. Oh, were there not a spirit in the word of man, as in
man himself, that survived the audible bodied word, and tended either
Godward, or else Devilward for evermore, why should he trouble himself much
with the truth of it, or the falsehood of it, except for commercial
purposes? His immortality indeed, and whether it shall last half a
lifetime, or a lifetime and half; is not that a very considerable thing?
As mortality, was to the runaway, whom Great Fritz bullied back into the
battle with a: "R—, wollt ihr ewig leben, Unprintable Off-scouring of
Scoundrels, would ye live for ever!"[98]
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In another apostrophe to the reader,
Carlyle reflects on the short life of the spoken and written word.
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This is the Communication of Thought: how happy when there is any Thought
to communicate! Neither let the simpler old methods be neglected, in their
sphere. The Palais-Royal Tent, a tyrannous Patrollotism has removed; but
can it remove the lungs of man? Anaxagoras
Chaumette?
we saw mounted on
bourne-stones, while
Tallien?
worked sedentary at the subeditorial desk. In
any corner of the civilised world, a tub can be inverted, and an
articulate-speaking biped mount thereon. Nay, with contrivance, a portable
trestle, or folding-stool, can be procured, for love or money; this the
peripatetic Orator can take in his hand, and, driven out here, set it up
again there; saying mildly, with a Sage Bias, Omnia mea mecum porto
[everything I have I carry with me].
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Even those without access to a press can get their points across.
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Such is Journalism, hawked, pasted, spoken. How changed since One old
Metra walked this same Tuileries Garden, in gilt cocked hat, with Journal
at his nose, or held loose-folded behind his back; and was a notability of
Paris, 'Metra the Newsman;' (Dulaure, Histoire de Paris,
viii. 483;
Mercier, Nouveau Paris, etc.)
and Louis himself was wont to say: Qu'en dit
Metra? Since the first Venetian News-sheet was sold for a gazza,
or farthing, and named Gazette! We live in a fertile world.
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The press has changed politics.
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Where the heart is full, it seeks, for a thousand reasons, in a thousand
ways, to impart itself. How sweet, indispensable, in such cases, is
fellowship; soul mystically strengthening soul! The meditative Germans,
some think, have been of opinion that Enthusiasm in the general means
simply excessive Congregating — Schwärmerey,
or Swarming. At any rate, do
we not see glimmering half-red embers, if laid together, get into the
brightest white glow?
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Revolutionary passions seek kindred minds.
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In such a France, gregarious Reunions will needs multiply, intensify;
French Life will step out of doors, and, from domestic, become a public
Club Life. Old Clubs, which already germinated, grow and flourish; new
every where bud forth. It is the sure symptom of Social Unrest: in such
way, most infallibly of all, does Social Unrest exhibit itself; find
solacement, and also nutriment. In every French head there hangs now,
whether for terror or for hope, some prophetic picture of a New France:
prophecy which brings, nay which almost is, its own fulfilment; and in all
ways, consciously and unconsciously, works towards that.
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The political Clubs fulfill that need.
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Observe, moreover, how the Aggregative Principle, let it be but deep
enough, goes on aggregating, and this even in a geometrical progression:
how when the whole world, in such a plastic time, is forming itself into
Clubs, some One Club, the strongest or luckiest, shall, by friendly
attracting, by victorious compelling, grow ever stronger, till it become
immeasurably strong; and all the others, with their strength, be either
lovingly absorbed into it, or hostilely abolished by it! This if the Club-
spirit is universal; if the time is plastic. Plastic enough is the time,
universal the Club-spirit: such an all absorbing, paramount One Club
cannot be wanting.
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The inevitable result, however, is that one club will eventually dominate.
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What a progress, since the first salient-point of the Breton Committee! It
worked long in secret, not languidly; it has come with the National
Assembly to Paris; calls itself Club0; calls itself in imitation, as is
thought, of those generous Price-Stanhope English, French Revolution
Club;
but soon, with more originality, Club of Friends of the Constitution.
Moreover it has leased, for itself, at a fair rent, the Hall of the
Jacobin's Convent, one of our 'superfluous edifices;' and does therefrom
now, in these spring months, begin shining out on an admiring Paris. And
so, by degrees, under the shorter popular title of Jacobins' Club,
it shall
become memorable to all times and lands. Glance into the interior:
strongly yet modestly benched and seated; as many as Thirteen Hundred
chosen Patriots; Assembly Members not a few.
Barnave?,
the two
Lameths? are
seen there; occasionally
Mirabeau?,
perpetually
Robespierre?;
also the
ferret-visage of
Fouquier-Tinville?
with other attorneys; Anacharsis of
Prussian Scythia [Clootz], and miscellaneous Patriots, —
though all is yet in the
most perfectly clean-washed state; decent, nay dignified. President on
platform, President's bell are not wanting; oratorical Tribune high-raised;
nor strangers' galleries, wherein also sit women. Has any French
Antiquarian Society preserved that written Lease of the Jacobins Convent
Hall? Or was it, unluckier even than Magna Charta, clipt
by sacrilegious
Tailors? Universal History is not indifferent to it.
|
First and foremost among the clubs is a debating society begun by the
Breton delegates to the National Assembly. From its meeting place, it is known
as the Jacobins.
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These Friends of the Constitution have met mainly, as their name may
foreshadow, to look after Elections when an Election comes, and procure fit
men; but likewise to consult generally that the Commonweal take no damage;
one as yet sees not how. For indeed let two or three gather together any
where, if it be not in Church, where all are bound to the passive
state; no
mortal can say accurately, themselves as little as any, for what
they are
gathered. How often has the broached barrel proved not to be for joy and
heart effusion, but for duel and head-breakage; and the promised feast
become a Feast of the Lapithae[99]!
This Jacobins Club, which at first shone
resplendent, and was thought to be a new celestial Sun for enlightening the
Nations, had, as things all have, to work through its appointed phases: it
burned unfortunately more and more lurid, more sulphurous, distracted; — and
swam at last, through the astonished Heaven, like a Tartarean Portent, and
lurid-burning Prison of Spirits in Pain.
|
When men come together, you cannot tell what will happen. The Jacobins,
originally limited in mission and moderate, became a torch for the
next phase of the revolution.
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Its style of eloquence? Rejoice, Reader, that thou knowest it not, that
thou canst never perfectly know. The Jacobins published a Journal of
Debates, where they that have the heart may examine: Impassioned, full-
droning Patriotic-eloquence; implacable, unfertile — save for Destruction,
which was indeed its work: most wearisome, though most deadly. Be thankful
that Oblivion covers so much; that all carrion is by and by buried in the
green Earth's bosom, and even makes her grow the greener. The Jacobins are
buried; but their work is not; it continues 'making the tour of the world,'
as it can. It might be seen lately, for instance, with bared bosom and
death-defiant eye, as far on as
Greek Missolonghi[100];
and, strange enough, old
slumbering Hellas was resuscitated, into somnambulism which will become
clear wakefulness, by a voice from the Rue St. Honoré! All dies, as we
often say; except the spirit of man, of what man does. Thus has not the
very House of the Jacobins vanished; scarcely lingering in a few old men's
memories? The St. Honoré Market has brushed it away, and now where
dull-droning eloquence, like a Trump of Doom, once shook the world, there is
pacific chaffering for poultry and greens. The sacred National Assembly
Hall itself has become common ground; President's platform permeable to
wain and dustcart; for the Rue de Rivoli runs there. Verily, at Cockcrow
(of this Cock or the other), all
Apparitions do melt and dissolve in space.
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Again, Carlyle assures us that words, even the most heated, evaporate.
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The Paris Jacobins?
became 'the Mother-Society,
Société-Mère;' and had as
many as 'three hundred' shrill-tongued daughters in 'direct correspondence'
with her. Of indirectly corresponding, what we may call grand-daughters
and minute progeny, she counted 'forty-four thousand!' — But for the present
we note only two things: the first of them a mere anecdote. One night, a
couple of brother Jacobins are doorkeepers; for the members take this post
of duty and honour in rotation, and admit none that have not tickets: one
doorkeeper was the worthy Sieur Lais, a patriotic Opera-singer, stricken in
years, whose windpipe is long since closed without result; the other,
young, and named Louis Philippe, d'Orléans's firstborn,
has in this latter
time, after unheard-of destinies, become Citizen-King, and struggles to
rule for a season. All-flesh is grass; higher reedgrass or creeping herb.
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The Jacobins correspond with hundreds or thousands of political clubs in
the provinces. Carlyle finds it amazing that the future Orleans King
Louis-Philippe, was a member, but the Jacobins was the club where the
powerful and the atriculate came to argue.
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The second thing we have to note is historical: that the Mother-Society,
even in this its effulgent period, cannot content all Patriots. Already it
must throw off, so to speak, two dissatisfied swarms; a swarm to the right,
a swarm to the left. One party, which thinks the Jacobins lukewarm,
constitutes itself into Club of the
Cordeliers?;
a hotter Club: it is
Danton's element: with whom goes Desmoulins. The other party, again,
which thinks the Jacobins scalding-hot, flies off to the right, and becomes
'Club of 1789, Friends of the Monarchic Constitution.'
They are afterwards named
'Feuillans?
Club;' their place of meeting being the Feuillans Convent.
Lafayette is, or becomes, their chief-man; supported by the respectable
Patriot everywhere, by the mass of Property and Intelligence, — with the
most flourishing prospects. They, in these June days of 1790, do, in the
Palais Royal, dine solemnly with open windows; to the cheers of the people;
with toasts, with inspiriting songs, — with one song at least, among the
feeblest ever sung?.
(Hist. Parl. vi. 334.) They shall, in due time be
hooted forth, over the borders, into Cimmerian Night.
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The Jacobins represent, in a way, a club of the center,
with the Cordeliers to the left and the Feuillants to the right. The
Feiullants boast the most powerful members as the constitution nears
completion.
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Another expressly Monarchic or Royalist Club, 'Club des Monarchiens,'
though a Club of ample funds, and all sitting in damask sofas, cannot
realise the smallest momentary cheer; realises only scoffs and groans; —
till, ere long, certain Patriots in disorderly sufficient number, proceed
thither, for a night or for nights, and groan it out of pain. Vivacious
alone shall the Mother-Society and her family be. The very Cordeliers may,
as it were, return into her bosom, which will have grown warm enough.
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Of all the original clubs, only the Jacobins will prosper.
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Fatal-looking! Are not such Societies an incipient New Order of Society
itself? The Aggregative Principle anew at work in a Society grown
obsolete, cracked asunder, dissolving into rubbish and primary atoms?
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The clubs are centers around which new order and government can form.
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With these signs of the times, is it not surprising that the dominant
feeling all over France was still continually Hope? O blessed Hope, sole
boon of man; whereby, on his strait prison walls, are painted beautiful
far-stretching landscapes; and into the night of very Death is shed holiest
dawn! Thou art to all an indefeasible possession in this God's-world: to
the wise a sacred Constantine's-banner[101],
written on the eternal skies; under
which they shall conquer,
for the battle itself is victory: to the foolish
some secular mirage, or shadow of still waters, painted on the parched
Earth; whereby at least their dusty pilgrimage, if devious, becomes
cheerfuller, becomes possible.
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An apostrophe to Hope.
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In the death-tumults of a sinking Society, French Hope sees only the
birth-struggles of a new unspeakably better Society; and sings, with full
assurance of faith, her brisk Melody, which some inspired fiddler has in
these very days composed for her, — the world-famous Ça-ira.
Yes; 'that
will go:' and then there will come — ? All men hope: even Marat hopes —
that Patriotism will take muff and dirk. King Louis is not without hope:
in the chapter of chances; in a flight to some
Bouillé?;
in getting
popularized at Paris. But what a hoping People he had, judge by the fact,
and series of facts, now to be noted.
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France is still full of hope in 1790.
|
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Poor Louis, meaning the best, with little insight and even less
determination of his own, has to follow, in that dim wayfaring of his, such
signal as may be given him;
by backstairs Royalism, by official or
backstairs Constitutionalism, whichever for the month may have convinced
the royal mind. If flight to Bouillé,
and (horrible to think!) a drawing
of the civil sword do hang as theory, portentous in the background, much
nearer is this fact of these Twelve Hundred Kings, who sit in the Salle de
Manége. Kings uncontrollable by him,
not yet irreverent to him. Could
kind management of these but prosper, how much better were it than armed
Emigrants, Turin-intrigues, and the help of Austria! Nay, are the two
hopes inconsistent? Rides in the suburbs, we have found, cost little; yet
they always brought vivats. (See
Bertrand-Moleville, i. 241, etc.) Still
cheaper is a soft word; such as has many times turned away wrath. In these
rapid days, while France is all getting divided into Departments, Clergy
about to be remodelled, Popular Societies rising, and Feudalism and so much
ever is ready to be hurled into the melting-pot, — might one not try?
|
The King mainly blows with the wind, but has the vague idea that he may
be able to manipulate the situation without foreign intervention or civil
war.
|
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On the 4th of February, accordingly, M. le Président
reads to his National
Assembly a short autograph, announcing that his Majesty will step over,
quite in an unceremonious way, probably about noon. Think, therefore,
Messieurs, what it may mean; especially, how ye will get the Hall decorated
a little. The Secretaries' Bureau can be shifted down from the platform;
on the President's chair be slipped this cover of velvet, 'of a violet
colour sprigged with gold fleur-de-lys;' — for indeed M. le Président has
had previous notice underhand, and taken counsel with Doctor Guillotin.
Then some fraction of 'velvet carpet,' of like texture and colour, cannot
that be spread in front of the chair, where the Secretaries usually sit?
So has judicious Guillotin advised: and the effect is found satisfactory.
Moreover, as it is probable that his Majesty, in spite of the
fleur-de-lys-velvet, will stand and not sit at all,
the President himself, in the
interim, presides standing. And so, while some honourable Member is
discussing, say, the division of a Department, Ushers announce: "His
Majesty!" In person, with small suite, enter Majesty: the honourable
Member stops short; the Assembly starts to its feet; the Twelve Hundred
Kings 'almost all,' and the Galleries no less, do welcome the Restorer of
French Liberty with loyal shouts. His Majesty's Speech, in diluted
conventional phraseology, expresses this mainly: That he, most of all
Frenchmen, rejoices to see France getting regenerated; is sure, at the same
time, that they will deal gently with her in the process, and not
regenerate her roughly. Such was his Majesty's Speech: the feat he
performed was coming to speak it, and going back again.
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Carlyle sees the King's address to the Assembly as unimportant in content but
significant as an attempt to reinsert the throne into French politics.
|
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Surely, except to a very hoping People, there was not much here to build
upon. Yet what did they not build! The fact that the King has spoken,
that he has voluntarily come to speak, how inexpressibly encouraging! Did
not the glance of his royal countenance, like concentrated sunbeams, kindle
all hearts in an august Assembly; nay thereby in an inflammable
enthusiastic France? To move 'Deputation of thanks' can be the happy lot
of but one man; to go in such Deputation the lot of not many. The Deputed
have gone, and returned with what highest-flown compliment they could; whom
also the Queen met, Dauphin in hand. And still do not our hearts burn with
insatiable gratitude; and to one other man a still higher blessedness
suggests itself: To move that we all renew the National Oath.
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The King's visit is well received.
|
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Happiest honourable Member, with his word so in season as word seldom was;
magic Fugleman?
of a whole National Assembly, which sat there bursting to do
somewhat; Fugleman of a whole onlooking France! The President swears;
declares that every one shall swear, in distinct je le jure.
Nay the very
Gallery sends him down a written slip signed, with their Oath on it; and as
the Assembly now casts an eye that way, the Gallery all stands up and
swears again. And then out of doors, consider at the Hôtel-de-Ville how
Bailly, the great Tennis-Court swearer, again swears, towards nightfall,
with all the Municipals, and Heads of Districts assembled there. And "M.
Danton suggests that the public would like to partake:" whereupon Bailly,
with escort of Twelve, steps forth to the great outer staircase; sways the
ebullient multitude with stretched hand: takes their oath, with a thunder
of 'rolling drums,' with shouts that rend the welkin. And on all streets
the glad people, with moisture and fire in their eyes, 'spontaneously
formed groups, and swore one another,' (Newspapers
(in Hist. Parl. iv. 445.)
— and the whole City was illuminated. This was the Fourth of February
1790: a day to be marked white in Constitutional annals.
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The Kings visit provokes an orgy of taking oaths to the Nation.
|
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Nor is the illumination for a night only, but partially or totally it lasts
a series of nights. For each District, the Electors of each District, will
swear specially; and always as the District swears; it illuminates itself.
Behold them, District after District, in some open square, where the
Non-Electing People can all see and join: with their uplifted right hands, and
je le jure:
with rolling drums, with embracings, and that infinite hurrah
of the enfranchised, — which any tyrant that there may be can consider!
Faithful to the King, to the Law, to the Constitution which the National
Assembly shall make.
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The sentiment is entirely constitutional.
|
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Fancy, for example, the Professors of Universities parading the streets
with their young France, and swearing, in an enthusiastic manner, not
without tumult. By a larger exercise of fancy, expand duly this little
word: The like was repeated in every Town and District of France! Nay one
Patriot Mother, in Lagnon of Brittany, assembles her ten children; and,
with her own aged hand, swears them all herself, the highsouled venerable
woman. Of all which, moreover, a National Assembly must be eloquently
apprised. Such three weeks of swearing! Saw the sun ever such a swearing
people? Have they been bit by a swearing tarantula? No: but they are men
and Frenchmen; they have Hope; and, singular to say, they have Faith, were
it only in the Gospel according to Jean Jacques. O my Brothers! would to
Heaven it were even as ye think and have sworn! But there are Lovers'
Oaths, which, had they been true as love itself, cannot be kept; not to
speak of Dicers' Oaths, also a known sort.
|
Carlyle notes that these ringing promises were not long kept.
|
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To such length had the Contrat
Social?
brought it, in believing hearts.
Man, as is well said, lives by faith; each generation has its own faith,
more or less; and laughs at the faith of its predecessor, — most unwisely.
Grant indeed that this faith in the Social Contract belongs to the stranger
sorts; that an unborn generation may very wisely, if not laugh, yet stare
at it, and piously consider. For, alas, what is Contrat?
If all men were
such that a mere spoken or sworn Contract would bind them, all men were
then true men, and Government a superfluity. Not what thou and I have
promised to each other, but what the balance of our forces can make us
perform to each other: that, in so sinful a world as ours, is the thing to
be counted on. But above all, a People and a Sovereign promising to one
another; as if a whole People, changing from generation to generation, nay
from hour to hour, could ever by any method be made to speak or promise;
and to speak mere solecisms: "We, be the Heavens witness, which Heavens
however do no miracles now; we, ever-changing Millions, will allow thee,
changeful Unit, to force us or govern us!" The world has perhaps seen few
faiths comparable to that.
|
Carlyle believes the people of any nation too uncertain, too flighty, to
enter into a contract of governance with their rulers.
|
|
So nevertheless had the world then construed the matter.
Had they not so
construed it, how different had their hopes been, their attempts, their
results! But so and not otherwise did the Upper Powers will it to be.
Freedom by Social Contract: such was verily the Gospel of that Era. And
all men had believed in it, as in a Heaven's Glad-tidings men should; and
with overflowing heart and uplifted voice clave to it, and stood fronting
Time and Eternity on it. Nay smile not; or only with a smile sadder than
tears! This too was a better faith than the one it had replaced : than
faith merely in the Everlasting Nothing and man's Digestive Power; lower
than which no faith can go.
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As unsupportable as is the idea of Social Contract, it is still stronger than
the null government it seeks to replace.
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Not that such universally prevalent, universally jurant, feeling of Hope,
could be a unanimous one. Far from that! The time was ominous: social
dissolution near and certain; social renovation still a problem, difficult
and distant even though sure. But if ominous to some clearest onlooker,
whose faith stood not with one side or with the other, nor in the ever-vexed
jarring of Greek with Greek at all, — how unspeakably ominous to dim
Royalist participators; for whom Royalism was Mankind's
palladium?;
for
whom, with the abolition of Most-Christian Kingship and Most-Talleyrand
Bishopship, all loyal obedience, all religious faith was to expire, and
final Night envelope the Destinies of Man! On serious hearts, of that
persuasion, the matter sinks down deep; prompting, as we have seen, to
backstairs Plots, to Emigration with pledge of war, to Monarchic Clubs; nay
to still madder things.
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The hopes expressed by the Nation leave little hope, or room to
manoeuver, for Royalists.
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The Spirit of Prophecy, for instance, had been considered extinct for some
centuries: nevertheless these last-times, as indeed is the tendency of
last-times, do revive it; that so, of French mad things, we might have
sample also of the maddest. In remote rural districts, whither
Philosophism has not yet radiated, where a heterodox Constitution of the
Clergy is bringing strife round the altar itself, and the very Church-bells
are getting melted into small money-coin, it appears probable that the End
of the World cannot be far off. Deep-musing
atrabiliar?
old men, especially
old women, hint in an obscure way that they know what they know. The Holy
Virgin, silent so long, has not gone dumb; — and truly now, if ever more in
this world, were the time for her to speak. One Prophetess, though
careless Historians have omitted her name, condition, and whereabout,
becomes audible to the general ear; credible to not a few: credible to
Friar Gerle?,
poor Patriot Chartreux, in the National Assembly itself! She,
in Pythoness' recitative, with wildstaring eye, sings that there shall be a
Sign; that the heavenly Sun himself will hang out a Sign, or Mock-Sun, —
which, many say, shall be stamped with the Head of hanged
Favras?.
List,
Dom Gerle, with that poor addled poll of thine; list, O list; — and hear
nothing. (Deux Amis, v. c. 7.)
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Signs and portents, long dismissed, once again receive attention.
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Notable however was that 'magnetic vellum,
vélin magnétique,' of the Sieurs
d'Hozier and Petit-Jean, Parlementeers of Rouen. Sweet young d'Hozier,
'bred in the faith of his Missal, and of parchment genealogies,' and of
parchment generally: adust [gloomy], melancholic, middle-aged Petit-Jean:
why came
these two to Saint-Cloud, where his Majesty was hunting, on the festival of
St. Peter and St. Paul; and waited there, in antechambers, a wonder to
whispering Swiss, the livelong day; and even waited without the Grates,
when turned out; and had dismissed their valets to Paris, as with purpose
of endless waiting? They have a magnetic vellum, these two; whereon the
Virgin, wonderfully clothing herself in
Mesmerean?
Cagliostric?
Occult-
Philosophy, has inspired them to jot down instructions and predictions for
a much-straitened King. To whom, by Higher Order, they will this day
present it; and save the Monarchy and World. Unaccountable pair of
visual-objects! Ye should be men, and of the Eighteenth Century; but your
magnetic vellum forbids us so to interpret. Say, are ye aught? Thus ask
the Guardhouse Captains, the Mayor of St. Cloud; nay, at great length, thus
asks the Committee of Researches, and not the Municipal, but the National
Assembly one. No distinct answer, for weeks. At last it becomes plain
that the right answer is negative. Go, ye Chimeras, with your magnetic
vellum; sweet young Chimera, adust middle-aged one! The Prison-doors are
open. Hardly again shall ye preside the Rouen Chamber of Accounts; but
vanish obscurely into Limbo. (See Deux Amis, v. 199.)
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An example is that some supposed prophetic automatic writing is considered
with some (but not much) seriousness.
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Such dim masses, and specks of even deepest black, work in that white-hot
glow of the French mind, now wholly in fusion, and confusion. Old women
here swearing their ten children on the new Evangel of Jean Jacques; old
women there looking up for Favras' Heads in the celestial Luminary: these
are preternatural signs, prefiguring somewhat.
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The orgy of swearing and the seeing of signs are signs of social fever
and confusion.
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In fact, to the Patriot children of Hope themselves, it is undeniable that
difficulties exist: emigrating Seigneurs; Parlements in sneaking but most
malicious mutiny (though the rope is round their neck); above all, the most
decided 'deficiency of grains.' Sorrowful: but, to a Nation that hopes,
not irremediable. To a Nation which is in fusion and ardent communion of
thought; which, for example, on signal of one
Fugleman?,
will lift its right
hand like a drilled regiment, and swear and illuminate, till every village
from Ardennes to the Pyrenees has rolled its village-drum, and sent up its
little oath, and glimmer of tallow-illumination some fathoms into the reign
of Night!
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But hope contributes to national unity.
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If grains are defective, the fault is not of Nature or National Assembly,
but of Art and Antinational Intriguers. Such malign individuals, of the
scoundrel species, have power to vex us, while the Constitution is a-making.
Endure it, ye heroic Patriots: nay rather, why not cure it?
Grains do grow, they lie extant there in sheaf or sack; only that regraters
and Royalist plotters, to provoke the people into illegality, obstruct the
transport of grains. Quick, ye organised Patriot Authorities, armed
National Guards, meet together; unite your goodwill; in union is tenfold
strength: let the concentred flash of your Patriotism strike stealthy
Scoundrelism blind, paralytic, as with a coup de soleil [sun-stroke].
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Speculators and aristocrats being blamed for the bread shortage, local
authorities — the people banded together —
look to control grain distribution.
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Under which hat or nightcap of the Twenty-five millions, this pregnant Idea
first rose, for in some one head it did rise, no man can now say. A most
small idea, near at hand for the whole world: but a living one, fit; and
which waxed, whether into greatness or not, into immeasurable size. When a
Nation is in this state that the Fugleman can operate on it, what will the
word in season, the act in season, not do! It will grow verily, like the
Boy's Bean in the Fairy-Tale, heaven-high, with habitations and adventures
on it, in one night. It is nevertheless unfortunately still a Bean (for
your long-lived Oak grows not so); and, the next night, it may lie felled,
horizontal, trodden into common mud. — But remark, at least, how natural to
any agitated Nation, which has Faith, this business of Covenanting is. The
Scotch, believing in a righteous Heaven above them, and also in a Gospel,
far other than the Jean-Jacques one, swore, in their extreme need, a Solemn
League and Covenant, — as Brothers on the forlorn-hope, and imminence of
battle, who embrace looking Godward; and got the whole Isle to swear it;
and even, in their tough Old-Saxon Hebrew-Presbyterian way, to keep it more
or less; — for the thing, as such things are, was heard in Heaven, and
partially ratified there; neither is it yet dead, if thou wilt look, nor
like to die. The French too, with their Gallic-Ethnic excitability and
effervescence, have, as we have seen, real Faith, of a sort; they are hard
bestead, though in the middle of Hope: a National Solemn League and
Covenant there may be in France too; under how different conditions; with
how different development and issue!
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Carlyle compares this banding together with that of his co-patriot Scots
in the 1640s.
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Note, accordingly, the small commencement; first spark of a mighty
firework: for if the particular hat
cannot be fixed upon, the particular
District can. On the 29th day of last November, were National Guards by
the thousand seen filing, from far and near, with military music, with
Municipal officers in tricolor sashes, towards and along the Rhone-stream,
to the little town of Etoile. There with ceremonial evolution and
manoeuvre, with fanfaronading, musketry-salvoes, and what else the Patriot
genius could devise, they made oath and obtestation to stand faithfully by
one another, under Law and King; in particular, to have all manner of
grains, while grains there were, freely circulated, in spite both of robber
and regrater. This was the meeting of Etoile, in the mild end of November
1789.
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The prototype of the fédération was in late 1789.
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But now, if a mere empty Review, followed by Review-dinner, ball, and such
gesticulation and flirtation as there may be, interests the happy County-
town, and makes it the envy of surrounding County-towns, how much more
might this! In a fortnight, larger Montélimart, half ashamed of itself,
will do as good, and better. On the Plain of Montélimart, or what is
equally sonorous, 'under the Walls of Montélimart,' the thirteenth of
December sees new gathering and obtestation; six thousand strong; and now
indeed, with these three remarkable improvements, as unanimously resolved
on there. First that the men of Montélimart do
federate with the already
federated men of Etoile. Second, that, implying not expressing the
circulation of grain, they 'swear in the face of God and their Country'
with much more emphasis and comprehensiveness, 'to obey all decrees of the
National Assembly, and see them obeyed, till death, jusqu'a la mort.'
Third, and most important, that official record of all this be solemnly
delivered in to the National Assembly, to M. de Lafayette, and 'to the
Restorer of French Liberty;' who shall all take what comfort from it they
can. Thus does larger Montélimart vindicate its Patriot importance, and
maintain its rank in the municipal scale.
(Hist. Parl. vii. 4.)
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Montélimart provides a prototype for these events.
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And so, with the New-year, the signal is hoisted; for is not a National
Assembly, and solemn deliverance there, at lowest a National Telegraph?
Not only grain shall circulate, while there is grain, on highways or the
Rhone-waters, over all that South-Eastern region, — where also if
Monseigneur d'Artois saw good to break in from Turin, hot welcome might
wait him; but whatsoever Province of France is straitened for grain, or
vexed with a mutinous Parlement, unconstitutional plotters, Monarchic
Clubs, or any other Patriot ailment, — can go and do likewise, or even do
better. And now, especially, when the February swearing has set them all
agog! From Brittany to Burgundy, on most plains of France, under most
City-walls, it is a blaring of trumpets, waving of banners, a
constitutional manoeuvring: under the vernal skies, while Nature too is
putting forth her green Hopes, under bright sunshine defaced by the
stormful East; like Patriotism victorious, though with difficulty, over
Aristocracy and defect of grain! There march and constitutionally wheel,
to the
ça-ira?-ing
mood of fife and drum, under their tricolor Municipals,
our clear-gleaming Phalanxes; or halt, with uplifted right-hand, and
artillery-salvoes that imitate Jove's thunder; and all the Country, and
metaphorically all 'the Universe,' is looking on. Wholly, in their best
apparel, brave men, and beautifully dizened women, most of whom have lovers
there; swearing, by the eternal Heavens and this green-growing all-nutritive
Earth, that France is free!
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Federations occur all over France in early 1790.
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Sweetest days, when (astonishing to say) mortals have actually met together
in communion and fellowship; and man, were it only once through long
despicable centuries, is for moments verily the brother of man! — And then
the Deputations to the National Assembly, with highflown descriptive
harangue; to M. de Lafayette, and the Restorer; very frequently moreover to
the
Mother of Patriotism?
sitting on her stout benches in that Hall of the
Jacobins! The general ear is filled with Federation. New names of
Patriots emerge, which shall one day become familiar:
Boyer-Fonfrede?
eloquent denunciator of a rebellious Bourdeaux Parlement;
Max Isnard?
eloquent reporter of the Federation of Draguignan; eloquent pair, separated
by the whole breadth of France, who are nevertheless to meet. Ever wider
burns the flame of Federation; ever wider and also brighter. Thus the
Brittany and Anjou brethren mention a Fraternity of all
true Frenchmen; and
go the length of invoking 'perdition and death' on any renegade: moreover,
if in their National-Assembly harangue, they glance plaintively at the marc
d'argent which makes so many citizens passive, they,
over in the Mother-Society, ask,
being henceforth themselves 'neither Bretons nor Angevins but
French,' Why all France has not one Federation, and universal Oath of
Brotherhood, once for all? (Reports, etc.
(in Hist. Parl. ix. 122-147).) A
most pertinent suggestion; dating from the end of March. Which pertinent
suggestion the whole Patriot world cannot but catch, and reverberate and
agitate till it become loud; — which,
in that case, the Townhall Municipals
had better take up, and meditate.
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The idea forms of a great National fédération in Paris on
the anniversary of the Bastille.
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Some universal Federation seems inevitable: the Where is given; clearly
Paris: only the When, the How? These also productive Time will give; is
already giving. For always as the Federative work goes on, it perfects
itself, and Patriot genius adds contribution after contribution. Thus, at
Lyons, in the end of the May month, we behold as many as fifty, or some say
sixty thousand, met to federate; and a multitude looking on, which it would
be difficult to number. From dawn to dusk! For our Lyons Guardsmen took
rank, at five in the bright dewy morning; came pouring in, bright-gleaming,
to the Quai de Rhone, to march thence to the Federation-field; amid wavings
of hats and lady-handkerchiefs; glad shoutings of some two hundred thousand
Patriot voices and hearts; the beautiful and brave! Among whom, courting
no notice, and yet the notablest of all, what queenlike Figure is this;
with her escort of house-friends and
Champagneux?
the Patriot Editor; come
abroad with the earliest? Radiant with enthusiasm are those dark eyes, is
that strong Minerva-face, looking dignity and earnest joy; joyfullest she
where all are joyful. It is Roland de la
Platriere?'s
Wife?!
(Madame
Roland, Mémoires, i. (Discours Préliminaire, p. 23).)
Strict elderly
Roland, King's Inspector of Manufactures here; and now likewise, by popular
choice, the strictest of our new Lyons Municipals: a man who has gained
much, if worth and faculty be gain; but above all things, has gained to
wife Philipon the Paris Engraver's daughter. Reader, mark that queenlike
burgher-woman: beautiful, Amazonian-graceful to the eye; more so to the
mind. Unconscious of her worth (as all worth is), of her greatness, of her
crystal clearness; genuine, the creature of Sincerity and Nature, in an age
of Artificiality, Pollution and Cant; there, in her still completeness, in
her still invincibility, she, if thou knew it, is the noblest of all living
Frenchwomen, — and will be seen, one day. O blessed rather while unseen,
even of herself! For the present she gazes, nothing doubting, into this
grand theatricality; and thinks her young dreams are to be fulfilled.
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Carlyle is particularly taken by the tragic story of the beautiful and
intelligent Jeanne Roland, who described the Lyons Federation in her
memoirs.
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From dawn to dusk, as we said, it lasts; and truly a sight like few.
Flourishes of drums and trumpets are something: but think of an
'artificial Rock fifty feet high,' all cut into crag-steps, not without the
similitude of 'shrubs!' The interior cavity, for in sooth it is made of
deal [cheap wood], — stands solemn,
a 'Temple of Concord:' on the outer summit rises 'a
Statue of Liberty,' colossal, seen for miles, with her Pike and Phrygian
Cap, and civic column; at her feet a Country's Altar, 'Autel de la
Patrie:' — on all which neither deal-timber nor lath and plaster,
with paint
of various colours, have been spared. But fancy then the banners all
placed on the steps of the Rock; high-mass chaunted; and the civic oath of
fifty thousand: with what volcanic outburst of sound from iron and other
throats, enough to frighten back the very Saone and Rhone; and how the
brightest fireworks, and balls, and even repasts closed in that night of
the gods! (Hist. Parl. xii. 274.)
And so the Lyons Federation vanishes
too, swallowed of darkness; — and yet not wholly, for our brave fair Roland
was there; also she, though in the deepest privacy, writes her Narrative of
it in Champagneux's Courier de Lyons; a piece which 'circulates to the
extent of sixty thousand;' which one would like now to read.
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A description of the Lyons Federation.
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But on the whole, Paris, we may see, will have little to devise; will only
have to borrow and apply. And then as to the day, what day of all the
calendar is fit, if the Bastille Anniversary be not? The particular spot
too, it is easy to see, must be the Champ-de-Mars; where many a Julian the
Apostate?
has been lifted on bucklers, to France's or the world's
sovereignty; and iron Franks, loud-clanging, have responded to the voice of
a Charlemagne?;
and from of old mere sublimities have been familiar.
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The stage is set for the greatest Federation of them all, in Paris, July 14,
1790.
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Pardonable are human theatricalities; nay perhaps touching, like the
passionate utterance of a tongue which with sincerity stammers;
of a head
which with insincerity babbles, — having gone distracted. Yet, in
comparison with unpremeditated outbursts of Nature, such as an Insurrection
of Women, how foisonless [weak], unedifying, undelightful;
like small ale palled [gone flat],
like an effervescence that has effervesced! Such scenes, coming of
forethought, were they world-great, and never so cunningly devised, are at
bottom mainly pasteboard and paint. But the others are original; emitted
from the great everliving heart of Nature herself:
what figure they will
assume is unspeakably significant. To us, therefore, let the French
National Solemn League, and Federation, be the highest recorded triumph of
the Thespian Art; triumphant surely, since the whole Pit, which was of
Twenty-five Millions, not only claps hands, but does itself spring on the
boards and passionately set to playing there. And being such, be it
treated as such: with sincere cursory admiration; with wonder from afar.
A whole Nation gone mumming deserves so much; but deserves not that loving
minuteness a Menadic Insurrection did. Much more let prior, and as it
were, rehearsal scenes of Federation come and go, henceforward, as they
list; and, on Plains and under City-walls, innumerable regimental bands
blare off into the Inane, without note from us.
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Carlyle explains why he does not give more details of the
Federation phenomonon. Nevertheless the next two chapters are a series
of stories about it.
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One scene, however, the hastiest reader will momentarily pause on: that of
Anacharsis Clootz?
and the Collective sinful Posterity of Adam. — For a
Patriot Municipality has now, on the 4th of June, got its plan concocted,
and got it sanctioned by National Assembly; a Patriot King assenting; to
whom, were he even free to dissent, Federative harangues, overflowing with
loyalty, have doubtless a transient sweetness. There shall come Deputed
National Guards, so many in the hundred, from each of the Eighty-three
Departments of France. Likewise from all Naval and Military King's Forces,
shall Deputed quotas come; such Federation of National with Royal Soldier
has, taking place spontaneously, been already seen and sanctioned. For the
rest, it is hoped, as many as forty thousand may arrive: expenses to be
borne by the Deputing District; of all which let District and Department
take thought, and elect fit men, — whom the Paris brethren will fly to meet
and welcome.
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Delegates from all of France and even foreigners descend on Paris for the
fête.
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Now, therefore, judge if our Patriot Artists are busy; taking deep counsel
how to make the Scene worthy of a look from the Universe! As many as
fifteen thousand men, spade-men, barrow-men, stone-builders, rammers, with
their engineers, are at work on the Champ-de-Mars; hollowing it out into a
natural Amphitheatre, fit for such solemnity. For one may hope it will be
annual and perennial; a 'Feast of Pikes, Féte des Piques,'
notablest among
the high-tides of the year: in any case ought not a Scenic free Nation to
have some permanent National Amphitheatre? The Champ-de-Mars is getting
hollowed out; and the daily talk and the nightly dream in most Parisian
heads is of Federation, and that only. Federate Deputies are already under
way. National Assembly, what with its natural work, what with hearing and
answering harangues of Federates, of this Federation, will have enough to
do! Harangue of 'American Committee,' among whom is that faint figure of
Paul Jones 'as with the stars dim-twinkling
through it,'[102]
— come to
congratulate us on the prospect of such auspicious day. Harangue of
Bastille Conquerors, come to 'renounce' any special recompense, any
peculiar place at the solemnity; — since the Centre Grenadiers rather
grumble. Harangue of 'Tennis-Court Club,' who enter with far-gleaming
Brass-plate, aloft on a pole, and the Tennis-Court Oath engraved thereon;
which far gleaming Brass-plate they purpose to affix solemnly in the
Versailles original locality, on the 20th of this month, which is the
anniversary, as a deathless memorial, for some years: they will then dine,
as they come back, in the Bois de Boulogne; (See Deux Amis,
v. 122; Hist.
Parl. etc.) —
cannot, however, do it without apprising the world. To such
things does the august National Assembly ever and anon cheerfully listen,
suspending its regenerative labours; and with some touch of impromptu
eloquence, make friendly reply; — as indeed the wont has long been; for it
is a gesticulating, sympathetic People, and has a heart, and wears it on
its sleeve.
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Little else gets done during preparation for the Federation.
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In which circumstances, it occurred to the mind of Anacharsis Clootz that
while so much was embodying itself into Club or Committee, and perorating
applauded, there yet remained a greater and greatest; of which, if it also
took body and perorated, what might not the effect be: Humankind namely,
le Genre Humain itself!
In what rapt creative moment the Thought rose in
Anacharsis's soul; all his throes, while he went about giving shape and
birth to it; how he was sneered at by cold worldlings; but did sneer again,
being a man of polished sarcasm; and moved to and fro persuasive in
coffeehouse and soirée,
and dived down assiduous-obscure in the great deep
of Paris, making his Thought a Fact: of all this the spiritual biographies
of that period say nothing. Enough that on the 19th evening of June 1790,
the Sun's slant rays lighted a spectacle such as our foolish little Planet
has not often had to show: Anacharsis Clootz entering the august Salle de
Manége, with the Human Species at his heels.
Swedes, Spaniards, Polacks;
Turks, Chaldeans, Greeks, dwellers in Mesopotamia: behold them all; they
have come to claim place in the grand Federation, having an undoubted
interest in it.
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Clootz leads a delegation of foreigners;
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"Our ambassador titles," said the fervid Clootz, "are not written on
parchment, but on the living hearts of all men." These whiskered Polacks,
long-flowing turbaned Ishmaelites, astrological Chaldeans, who stand so
mute here, let them plead with you, august Senators, more eloquently than
eloquence could. They are the mute representatives of their tongue-tied,
befettered, heavy-laden Nations; who from out of that dark bewilderment
gaze wistful, amazed, with half-incredulous hope, towards you, and this
your bright light of a French Federation: bright particular day-star, the
herald of universal day. We claim to stand there, as mute monuments,
pathetically adumbrative of much. — From bench and gallery comes 'repeated
applause;' for what august Senator but is flattered even by the very shadow
of Human Species depending on him? From President Sieyes, who presides
this remarkable fortnight, in spite of his small voice, there comes
eloquent though shrill reply. Anacharsis and the 'Foreigners Committee'
shall have place at the Federation; on condition of telling their
respective Peoples what they see there. In the mean time, we invite them
to the 'honours of the sitting, honneur de la séance.'
A long-flowing
Turk, for rejoinder, bows with Eastern solemnity, and utters articulate
sounds: but owing to his imperfect knowledge of the French dialect,
(Moniteur, etc. (in Hist. Parl. xii. 283).)
his words are like spilt water;
the thought he had in him remains conjectural to this day.
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supposedly representing repressed nations looking to France for an example.
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Anacharsis and Mankind accept the honours of the sitting; and have
forthwith, as the old Newspapers still testify, the satisfaction to see
several things. First and chief, on the motion of Lameth, Lafayette,
Saint-Fargeau and other Patriot Nobles, let the others repugn as they will:
all Titles of Nobility, from Duke to Esquire, or lower, are henceforth
abolished.
Then, in like manner, Livery Servants, or rather the Livery of
Servants. Neither, for the future, shall any man or woman, self-styled
noble, be 'incensed,' — foolishly fumigated with incense, in Church; as the
wont has been. In a word, Feudalism being dead these ten months, why
should her empty trappings and scutcheons survive? The very Coats-of-arms
will require to be obliterated; — and yet Cassandra Marat on this and the
other coach-panel notices that they 'are but painted-over,' and threaten to
peer through again.
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In June, 1790, titles and other trappings of the nobility are obliterated
by law.
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So that henceforth de Lafayette is but the Sieur Motier, and Saint-Fargeau
is plain Michel Lepelletier; and Mirabeau soon after has to say huffingly,
"With your Riquetti
you have set Europe at cross-purposes for three days."
For his Counthood is not indifferent to this man; which indeed the admiring
People treat him with to the last. But let extreme Patriotism rejoice, and
chiefly Anacharsis and Mankind; for now it seems to be taken for granted
that one Adam is Father of us all! —
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Such was, in historical accuracy, the famed feat of Anacharsis. Thus did
the most extensive of Public Bodies find a sort of spokesman. Whereby at
least we may judge of one thing: what a humour the once sniffing mocking
City of Paris and Baron Clootz had got into; when such exhibition could
appear a propriety, next door to a sublimity. It is true, Envy did in
after times, pervert this success of Anacharsis; making him, from
incidental 'Speaker of the Foreign-Nations Committee,' claim to be official
permanent 'Speaker, Orateur, of the Human Species,' which he only deserved
to be; and alleging, calumniously, that his astrological Chaldeans, and the
rest, were a mere French tag-rag-and-bobtail disguised for the nonce; and,
in short, sneering and fleering at him in her cold barren way;
all which,
however, he, the man he was, could receive on thick enough panoply, or even
rebound therefrom, and also go his way.
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Carlyle derides the entire scene and its actors as an example of the
shallowness of the new order.
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Most extensive of Public Bodies, we may call it; and also the most
unexpected: for who could have thought to see All Nations in the Tuileries
Riding-Hall? But so it is; and truly as strange things may happen when a
whole People goes mumming and miming. Hast not thou thyself perchance seen
diademed Cleopatra, daughter of the Ptolemies, pleading, almost with bended
knee, in unheroic tea-parlour, or dimlit retail-shop, to inflexible gross
Burghal Dignitary, for leave to reign and die; being dressed for it, and
moneyless, with small children; — while suddenly Constables have shut the
Thespian barn, and her Antony pleaded in vain? Such visual spectra flit
across this Earth, if the Thespian Stage be rudely interfered with: but
much more, when, as was said, Pit jumps on Stage, then is it verily, as in
Herr Tieck's?
Drama, a Verkehrte Welt, of World Topsy-turvied!
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Not for the first time, Carlyle uses the image of the world turned upside
down to characterize the revolution.
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Having seen the Human Species itself, to have seen the 'Dean
of the Human
Species,' ceased now to be a miracle. Such 'Doyen du Genre Humain,
Eldest
of Men,' had shewn himself there, in these weeks: Jean Claude Jacob, a
born Serf, deputed from his native Jura Mountains to thank the National
Assembly for enfranchising them. On his bleached worn face are ploughed
the furrowings of one hundred and twenty years. He has heard dim
patois-talk,
of immortal Grand-Monarch victories; of a burnt Palatinate, as he
toiled and moiled to make a little speck of this Earth greener; of Cevennes
Dragoonings; of Marlborough going to the war. Four generations have
bloomed out, and loved and hated, and rustled off: he was forty-six when
Louis Fourteenth died. The Assembly, as one man, spontaneously rose, and
did reverence to the Eldest of the World; old Jean is to take seance among
them, honourably, with covered head. He gazes feebly there, with his old
eyes, on that new wonder-scene; dreamlike to him, and uncertain, wavering
amid fragments of old memories and dreams. For Time is all growing
unsubstantial, dreamlike; Jean's eyes and mind are weary, and about to
close, — and open on a far other wonder-scene, which shall be real. Patriot
Subscription, Royal Pension was got for him, and he returned home glad; but
in two months more he left it all, and went on his unknown way.
(Deux
Amis, iv. iii.)
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Another strange scene is the appearance of Jean-Claude Jacob, supposedly
the oldest man in France, at the Assembly.
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Meanwhile to Paris, ever going and returning, day after day, and all day
long, towards that Field of Mars, it becomes painfully apparent that the
spadework there cannot be got done in time. There is such an area of it;
three hundred thousand square feet: for from the École militaire (which
will need to be done up in wood with balconies and galleries) westward to
the Gate by the river (where also shall be wood, in triumphal arches), we
count some thousand yards of length; and for breadth, from this umbrageous
Avenue of eight rows, on the South side, to that corresponding one on the
North, some thousand feet, more or less. All this to be scooped out, and
wheeled up in slope along the sides; high enough; for it must be rammed
down there, and shaped stair-wise into as many as 'thirty ranges of
convenient seats,' firm-trimmed with turf, covered with enduring timber; —
and then our huge pyramidal Fatherland's-Altar, Autel de la Patrie,
in the
centre, also to be raised and stair-stepped! Force-work with a vengeance;
it is a World's Amphitheatre! There are but fifteen days good; and at this
languid rate, it might take half as many weeks. What is singular too, the
spademen seem to work lazily; they will not work double-tides, even for
offer of more wages, though their tide is but seven hours; they declare
angrily that the human tabernacle requires occasional rest!
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Work on the Federation site falls behind.
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Is it Aristocrats secretly bribing? Aristocrats were capable of that.
Only six months since, did not evidence get afloat that subterranean Paris,
for we stand over quarries and catacombs, dangerously, as it were midway
between Heaven and the Abyss, and are hollow underground, — was charged with
gunpowder, which should make us 'leap?' Till a Cordelier's Deputation
actually went to examine, and found it — carried off again!
(23rd December,
1789 (Newspapers in Hist. Parl. iv. 44).) An accursed, incurable brood;
all asking for 'passports,' in these sacred days. Trouble, of rioting,
Château-burning, is in the Limousin and elsewhere; for they are busy!
Between the best of Peoples and the best of Restorer-Kings, they would sow
grudges; with what a fiend's-grin would they see this Federation, looked
for by the Universe, fail!
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Like everything else, it is blamed on "aristocrats".
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Fail for want of spadework, however, it shall not. He that has four limbs,
and a French heart, can do spadework; and will! On the first July Monday,
scarcely has the signal-cannon boomed; scarcely have the languescent
mercenary Fifteen Thousand laid down their tools, and the eyes of onlookers
turned sorrowfully of the still high Sun; when this and the other Patriot,
fire in his eye, snatches barrow and mattock, and himself begins
indignantly wheeling. Whom scores and then hundreds follow; and soon a
volunteer Fifteen Thousand are shovelling and trundling; with the heart of
giants; and all in right order, with that extemporaneous adroitness of
theirs: whereby such a lift has been given, worth three mercenary ones; —
which may end when the late twilight thickens, in triumph shouts, heard or
heard of beyond Montmartre!
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Volunteers speed the work.
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A sympathetic population will wait, next day, with eagerness, till the
tools are free. Or why wait? Spades elsewhere exist! And so now bursts
forth that effulgence of Parisian enthusiasm, good-heartedness and
brotherly love; such, if Chroniclers are trustworthy, as was not witnessed
since the Age of Gold. Paris, male and female, precipitates itself towards
its South-west extremity, spade on shoulder. Streams of men, without
order; or in order, as ranked fellow-craftsmen, as natural or accidental
reunions, march towards the Field of Mars. Three-deep these march; to the
sound of stringed music; preceded by young girls with green boughs, and
tricolor streamers: they have shouldered, soldier-wise, their shovels and
picks; and with one throat are singing
ça-ira?.
Yes, pardieu ça-ira, cry
the passengers on the streets. All corporate Guilds, and public and
private Bodies of Citizens, from the highest to the lowest, march; the very
Hawkers, one finds, have ceased bawling for one day. The neighbouring
Villages turn out: their able men come marching, to village fiddle or
tambourine and triangle, under their Mayor, or Mayor and Curate, who also
walk bespaded, and in tricolor sash. As many as one hundred and fifty
thousand workers: nay at certain seasons, as some count, two hundred and
fifty thousand; for, in the afternoon especially, what mortal but,
finishing his hasty day's work, would run! A stirring city: from the time
you reach the Place Louis Quinze, southward over the River, by all Avenues,
it is one living throng. So many workers; and no mercenary mock-workers,
but real ones that lie freely to it: each Patriot stretches himself
against the stubborn glebe; hews and wheels with the whole weight that is
in him.
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Tens of thousands of Parisians put their backs into it.
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Amiable infants, aimables enfans! They do the
'police des l'atelier' too,
the guidance and governance, themselves; with that ready will of theirs,
with that extemporaneous adroitness. It is a true brethren's work; all
distinctions confounded, abolished; as it was in the beginning, when Adam
himself delved. Longfrocked tonsured Monks, with short-skirted
Water-carriers, with swallow-tailed well-frizzled
Incroyables of a Patriot turn;
dark Charcoalmen, meal-white Peruke-makers; or Peruke-wearers, for Advocate
and Judge are there, and all Heads of Districts: sober Nuns sisterlike
with flaunting Nymphs of the Opera, and females in common circumstances
named unfortunate: the patriot Rag-picker, and perfumed dweller in
palaces; for Patriotism like New-birth, and also like Death, levels all.
The Printers have come marching,
Prudhomme's?
all in Paper-caps with
Révolutions de Paris
printed on them; as
Camille?
notes; wishing that in
these great days there should be a Pacte des Ecrivains too,
or Federation
of Able Editors. (See Newspapers, etc.
(in Hist. Parl. vi. 381-406).)
Beautiful to see! The snowy linen and delicate pantaloon alternates with
the soiled check-shirt and bushel-breeches; for both have cast their coats,
and under both are four limbs and a set of Patriot muscles. There do they
pick and shovel; or bend forward, yoked in long strings to box-barrow or
overloaded tumbril; joyous, with one mind.
Abbé
Sieyes ?
is seen pulling,
wiry, vehement, if too light for draught; by the side of
Beauharnais?,
who
shall get Kings though he be none. Abbé
Maury?
did not pull; but the
Charcoalmen brought a mummer guised like him, so he had to pull in effigy.
Let no august Senator disdain the work: Mayor
Bailly?,
Generalissimo
Lafayette?
are there; — and, alas, shall be there again another day! The
King himself comes to see: sky-rending Vive-le-Roi; 'and suddenly with
shouldered spades they form a guard of honour round him.' Whosoever can
come comes, to work, or to look, and bless the work.
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It is the work of all Parisians.
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Whole families have come. One whole family we see clearly, of three
generations: the father picking, the mother shovelling, the young ones
wheeling assiduous; old grandfather, hoary with ninety-three years, holds
in his arms the youngest of all: (Mercier. ii. 76, etc.)
frisky, not helpful
this one; who nevertheless may tell it to his grandchildren; and how the
Future and the Past alike looked on, and with failing or with half-formed
voice, faltered their ça-ira.
A vintner has wheeled in, on Patriot truck,
beverage of wine: "Drink not, my brothers, if ye are not dry; that your
cask may last the longer;" neither did any drink, but men 'evidently
exhausted.' A dapper Abbé looks on, sneering. "To the barrow!" cry
several; whom he, lest a worse thing befall him, obeys: nevertheless one
wiser Patriot barrowman, arriving now, interposes his "arrêtz;"
setting
down his own barrow, he snatches the Abbé's; trundles it fast, like an
infected thing; forth of the Champ-de-Mars circuit, and discharges it
there. Thus too a certain person (of some quality,
or private capital, to
appearance), entering hastily, flings down his coat, waistcoat and two
watches, and is rushing to the thick of the work: "But your watches?"
cries the general voice. — "Does one distrust his brothers?" answers he; nor
were the watches stolen. How beautiful is noble-sentiment: like gossamer
gauze, beautiful and cheap; which will stand no tear and wear! Beautiful
cheap gossamer gauze, thou film-shadow of a raw-material of Virtue, which
art not woven, nor likely to be, into Duty;
thou art better than nothing,
and also worse!
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Carlyle recounts some of the famous scenes of the preparation.
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Young Boarding-school Boys, College Students, shout Vive la Nation, and
regret that they have yet 'only their sweat to give.' What say we of Boys?
Beautifullest Hebes; the loveliest of Paris, in their light air-robes, with
riband-girdle of tricolor, are there; shovelling and wheeling with the
rest; their Hebe eyes brighter with enthusiasm, and long hair in beautiful
dishevelment: hard-pressed are their small fingers; but they make the
patriot barrow go, and even force it to the summit of the slope (with a
little tracing, which what man's arm were not too happy to lend?) — then
bound down with it again, and go for more; with their long locks and
tricolors blown back: graceful as the rosy Hours. O, as that evening Sun
fell over the Champ-de-Mars, and tinted with fire the thick umbrageous
boscage that shelters it on this hand and on that, and struck direct on
those Domes and two-and-forty Windows of the École Militaire,
and made them
all of burnished gold, — saw he on his wide zodiac road other such sight? A
living garden spotted and dotted with such flowerage; all colours of the
prism; the beautifullest blent friendly with the usefullest; all growing
and working brotherlike there, under one warm feeling, were it but for
days; once and no second time! But Night is sinking; these Nights too,
into Eternity. The hastiest Traveller Versailles-ward has drawn bridle on
the heights of Chaillot: and looked for moments over the River; reporting
at Versailles what he saw, not without tears.
(Mercier, ii. 81.)
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More such scenes.
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Meanwhile, from all points of the compass, Federates are arriving: fervid
children of the South, 'who glory in their Mirabeau;' considerate North-
blooded Mountaineers of Jura; sharp Bretons, with their Gaelic suddenness;
Normans not to be overreached in bargain: all now animated with one
noblest fire of Patriotism. Whom the Paris brethren march forth to
receive; with military solemnities, with fraternal embracing, and a
hospitality worthy of the heroic ages. They assist at the Assembly's
Debates, these Federates: the Galleries are reserved for them. They
assist in the toils of the Champ-de-Mars; each new troop will put its hand
to the spade; lift a hod of earth on the Altar of the Fatherland. But the
flourishes of rhetoric, for it is a gesticulating People; the moral-sublime
of those Addresses to an august Assembly, to a Patriot Restorer! Our
Breton Captain of Federates kneels even, in a fit of enthusiasm, and gives
up his sword; he wet-eyed to a King wet-eyed. Poor Louis! These, as he
said afterwards, were among the bright days of his life.
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Delegations from all over France begin to arrive.
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Reviews also there must be; royal Federate-reviews, with King, Queen and
tricolor Court looking on: at lowest, if, as is too common, it rains, our
Federate Volunteers will file through the inner gateways, Royalty standing
dry. Nay there, should some stop occur, the beautifullest fingers in
France may take you softly by the lapelle, and, in mild flute-voice, ask:
"Monsieur, of what Province are you?" Happy he who can reply, chivalrously
lowering his sword's point, "Madame, from the Province your ancestors
reigned over." He that happy 'Provincial Advocate,' now Provincial
Federate, shall be rewarded by a sun-smile, and such melodious glad words
addressed to a King: "Sire, these are your faithful Lorrainers." Cheerier
verily, in these holidays, is this 'skyblue faced with red' of a National
Guardsman, than the dull black and gray of a Provincial Advocate, which in
workdays one was used to. For the same thrice-blessed Lorrainer shall,
this evening, stand sentry at a Queen's door; and feel that he could die a
thousand deaths for her: then again, at the outer gate, and even a third
time, she shall see him; nay he will make her do it; presenting arms with
emphasis, 'making his musket jingle again': and in her salute there shall
again be a sun-smile, and that little blonde-locked too hasty Dauphin shall
be admonished, "Salute then, Monsieur, don't be unpolite;" and therewith
she, like a bright Sky-wanderer or Planet with her little Moon, issues
forth peculiar. (Narrative by a Lorraine Federate
(given in Hist. Parl.
vi. 389-91).)
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The last story is a maudlin one involving the Queen.
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But at night, when Patriot spadework is over, figure the sacred rights of
hospitality! Lepelletier Saint-Fargeau, a mere private senator, but with
great possessions, has daily his 'hundred dinner-guests;' the table of
Generalissimo Lafayette may double that number. In lowly parlour, as in
lofty saloon, the wine-cup passes round; crowned by the smiles of Beauty;
be it of lightly-tripping Grisette, or of high-sailing Dame, for both
equally have beauty, and smiles precious to the brave.
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And they partied on into the night.
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And so now, in spite of plotting Aristocrats, lazy hired spademen, and
almost of Destiny itself (for there has been much rain), the Champ-de-Mars,
on the 13th of the month is fairly ready; trimmed, rammed, buttressed with
firm masonry; and Patriotism can stroll over it admiring; and as it were
rehearsing, for in every head is some unutterable image of the morrow.
Pray Heaven there be not clouds. Nay what far worse cloud is this, of a
misguided Municipality that talks of admitting Patriotism, to the
solemnity, by tickets! Was it by tickets we were admitted to the work; and
to what brought the work? Did we take the Bastille by tickets? A
misguided Municipality sees the error; at late midnight, rolling drums
announce to Patriotism starting half out of its bed-clothes, that it is to
be ticketless. Pull down thy night-cap therefore; and, with demi-articulate
grumble, significant of several things, go pacified to sleep
again. Tomorrow is Wednesday morning; unforgetable among the fasti
[feast-days] of the
world.
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The city first thinks to control crowd size by charging admission to the
Federation. Cooler minds prevail.
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The morning comes, cold for a July one; but such a festivity would make
Greenland smile. Through every inlet of that National Amphitheatre (for it
is a league in circuit, cut with openings at due intervals), floods-in the
living throng; covers without tumult space after space. The École
Militaire has galleries and overvaulting canopies, where Carpentry and
Painting have vied, for the upper Authorities; triumphal arches, at the
Gate by the River, bear inscriptions, if weak, yet well-meant, and
orthodox. Far aloft, over the Altar of the Fatherland, on their tall crane
standards of iron, swing pensile our antique Cassolettes or Pans of
Incense; dispensing sweet incense-fumes, — unless for the Heathen Mythology,
one sees not for whom. Two hundred thousand Patriotic Men; and, twice as
good, one hundred thousand Patriotic Women, all decked and glorified as one
can fancy, sit waiting in this Champ-de-Mars.
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The crowd is huge: over 250,000 people.
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What a picture: that circle of bright-eyed Life, spread up there, on its
thirty-seated Slope; leaning, one would say, on the thick umbrage of those
Avenue-Trees, for the stems of them are hidden by the height; and all
beyond it mere greenness of Summer Earth, with the gleams of waters, or
white sparklings of stone-edifices: little circular enamel-picture in the
centre of such a vase — of emerald! A vase not empty: the Invalides
Cupolas want not their population, nor the distant Windmills of Montmartre;
on remotest steeple and invisible village belfry, stand men with spy-
glasses. On the heights of Chaillot are many-coloured undulating groups;
round and far on, over all the circling heights that embosom Paris, it is
as one more or less peopled Amphitheatre; which the eye grows dim with
measuring. Nay heights, as was before hinted, have cannon; and a floating-
battery of cannon is on the Seine. When eye fails, ear shall serve; and
all France properly is but one Amphitheatre: for in paved town and unpaved
hamlet, men walk listening; till the muffled thunder sound audible on their
horizon, that they too may begin swearing and firing! (Deux
Amis, v. 168.)
But now, to streams of music, come Federates enough, — for they have
assembled on the Boulevard Saint-Antoine or thereby, and come marching
through the City, with their Eighty-three Department Banners, and blessings
not loud but deep; comes National Assembly, and takes seat under its
Canopy; comes Royalty, and takes seat on a throne beside it. And
Lafayette, on white charger, is here, and all the civic Functionaries; and
the Federates form dances, till their strictly military evolutions and
manoeuvres can begin.
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It seems all France is there, or watching from nearby heights.
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Evolutions and manoeuvres? Task not the pen of mortal to describe them:
truant imagination droops; — declares that it is not worth while. There is
wheeling and sweeping, to slow, to quick, and double quick-time: Sieur
Motier, or Generalissimo Lafayette, for they are one and the same, and he
is General of France, in the King's stead, for four-and-twenty hours; Sieur
Motier must step forth, with that sublime chivalrous gait of his; solemnly
ascend the steps of the Fatherland's Altar, in sight of Heaven and of the
scarcely breathing Earth; and, under the creak of those swinging
Cassolettes,
'pressing his sword's point firmly there,' pronounce the Oath,
To King, to Law, and Nation (not to mention 'grains' with their
circulating), in his own name and that of armed France. Whereat there is
waving of banners and acclaim sufficient. The National Assembly must
swear, standing in its place; the King himself audibly. The King swears;
and now be
the welkin split with vivats; let citizens enfranchised embrace,
each smiting heartily his palm into his fellow's; and armed Federates clang
their arms; above all, that floating battery speak! It has spoken, — to the
four corners of France. From eminence to eminence, bursts the thunder;
faint-heard, loud-repeated. What a stone, cast into what a lake; in
circles that do not grow fainter. From Arras to Avignon; from Metz to
Bayonne! Over Orléans and Blois it rolls, in cannon-recitative; Puy
bellows of it amid his granite mountains; Pau where is the shell-cradle of
Great
Henri?.
At far Marseilles, one can think, the ruddy evening witnesses
it; over the deep-blue Mediterranean waters, the Castle of If ruddy-tinted
darts forth, from every cannon's mouth, its tongue of fire; and all the
people shout: Yes, France is free. O glorious France that has burst out
so; into universal sound and smoke; and attained — the Phrygian Cap of
Liberty! In all Towns, Trees of Liberty also may be planted; with or
without advantage. Said we not, it is the highest stretch attained by the
Thespian Art on this Planet, or perhaps attainable?
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The fête is great theater.
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The Thespian Art, unfortunately, one must still call it; for behold there,
on this Field of Mars, the National Banners, before there could be any
swearing, were to be all blessed. A most proper operation; since surely
without Heaven's blessing bestowed, say even, audibly or inaudibly
sought,
no Earthly banner or contrivance can prove victorious: but now the means
of doing it? By what thrice-divine Franklin thunder-rod shall miraculous
fire be drawn out of Heaven; and descend gently, life-giving, with health
to the souls of men? Alas, by the simplest: by Two Hundred shaven-crowned
Individuals, 'in snow-white albs, with tricolor girdles,' arranged on the
steps of Fatherland's Altar; and, at their head for spokesman, Soul's
Overseer
Talleyrand-Perigord?!
These shall act as miraculous thunder-rod, —
to such length as they can. O ye deep azure Heavens, and thou green
all-nursing Earth; ye Streams ever-flowing; deciduous Forests that die and are
born again, continually, like the sons of men; stone Mountains that die
daily with every rain-shower, yet are not dead and levelled for ages of
ages, nor born again (it seems) but with new world-explosions, and such
tumultuous seething and tumbling, steam half way to the Moon; O thou
unfathomable mystic All, garment and dwellingplace of the UNNAMED; O
spirit, lastly, of Man, who mouldest and modellest that Unfathomable
Unnameable even as we see, — is not there a miracle: That some French
mortal should, we say not have believed, but pretended to imagine that he
believed that Talleyrand and Two Hundred pieces of white Calico could do
it!
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Carlyle frowns at the hypocrisy he sees in Talleyrand,
still Bishop of Arras, asking the blessing
of God.
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Here, however, we are to remark with the sorrowing Historians of that day,
that suddenly, while Episcopus Talleyrand, long-stoled, with mitre and
tricolor belt, was yet but hitching up the Altar-steps, to do his miracle,
the material Heaven grew black; a north-wind, moaning cold moisture, began
to sing; and there descended a very deluge of rain. Sad to see! The
thirty-staired Seats, all round our Amphitheatre, get instantaneously
slated with mere umbrellas, fallacious when so thick set: our antique
Cassolettes become Water-pots; their incense-smoke gone hissing,
in a whiff
of muddy vapour. Alas, instead of vivats, there is nothing now but the
furious peppering and rattling. From three to four hundred thousand human
individuals feel that they have a skin; happily impervious. The General's
sash runs water: how all military banners droop; and will not wave, but
lazily flap, as if metamorphosed into painted tin-banners! Worse, far
worse, these hundred thousand, such is the Historian's testimony, of the
fairest of France! Their snowy muslins all splashed and draggled; the
ostrich feather shrunk shamefully to the backbone of a feather: all caps
are ruined; innermost pasteboard molten into its original pap: Beauty no
longer swims decorated in her garniture, like Love-goddess hidden-revealed
in her Paphian clouds, but struggles in disastrous imprisonment in it, for
'the shape was noticeable;' and now only sympathetic interjections,
titterings, teeheeings, and resolute good-humour will avail. A deluge; an
incessant sheet or fluid-column of rain; — such that our Overseer's very
mitre must be filled; not a mitre, but a filled and leaky fire-bucket on
his reverend head! — Regardless of which, Overseer Talleyrand performs his
miracle: the Blessing of Talleyrand, another than that of
Jacob [Genesis 49], is on all
the Eighty-three departmental flags of France; which wave or flap, with
such thankfulness as needs. Towards three o'clock, the sun beams out
again: the remaining evolutions can be transacted under bright heavens,
though with decorations much damaged. (Deux Amis,
v. 143-179.)
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Rain hampers much of the ceremony.
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On Wednesday our Federation is consummated: but the festivities last out
the week, and over into the next. Festivities such as no Bagdad Caliph, or
Aladdin with the Lamp, could have equalled. There is a Jousting on the
River; with its water-somersets, splashing and haha-ing:
Abbé Fauchet?,
Te-Deum Fauchet,
preaches, for his part, in 'the rotunda of the Corn-market,'
a Harangue on Franklin; for whom the National Assembly has lately gone
three days in black[103].
The Motier?
and
Lepelletier?
tables still groan with
viands; roofs ringing with patriotic toasts. On the fifth evening, which
is the Christian Sabbath, there is a universal Ball. Paris, out of doors
and in, man, woman and child, is jigging it, to the sound of harp and
four-stringed fiddle. The hoariest-headed man will tread one other measure,
under this nether Moon; speechless nurselings, infants as we call them,
[Greek: naepia tekna], crow in arms; and sprawl out numb-plump little
limbs, —impatient
for muscularity, they know not why. The stiffest balk bends more or less;
all joists creak.
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Festivities continue for the rest of the week.
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Or out, on the Earth's breast itself, behold the Ruins of the Bastille.
All lamplit, allegorically decorated: a Tree of Liberty sixty feet high;
and Phrygian Cap on it, of size enormous, under which King Arthur and his
round-table might have dined! In the depths of the background, is a single
lugubrious [mournful] lamp,
rendering dim-visible one of your iron cages, half-buried,
and some Prison stones, — Tyranny vanishing downwards, all gone but the
skirt: the rest wholly lamp-festoons, trees real or of pasteboard; in the
similitude of a fairy grove; with this inscription, readable to runner:
'Ici l'on danse, Dancing Here.'
As indeed had been obscurely foreshadowed
by Cagliostro?
(See his Lettre au Peuple Français
(London, 1786.) prophetic
Quack of Quacks, when he, four years ago, quitted the grim durance; — to
fall into a grimmer, of the Roman Inquisition, and not quit it.
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The site of the Bastille, razed to the ground, is illuminated every
night.
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But, after all, what is this Bastille business to that of the Champs
Elysées!
Thither, to these Fields well named Elysian, all feet tend. It
is radiant as day with festooned lamps; little oil-cups, like variegated
fire-flies, daintily illumine the highest leaves: trees there are all
sheeted with variegated fire, shedding far a glimmer into the dubious wood.
There, under the free sky, do tight-limbed Federates, with fairest newfound
sweethearts, elastic as Diana, and not of that coyness and tart humour of
Diana, thread their jocund mazes, all through the ambrosial night; and
hearts were touched and fired; and seldom surely had our old Planet, in
that huge conic Shadow of hers 'which goes beyond the Moon, and is named
Night,' curtained such a Ball-room. O if, according to Seneca, the very
gods look down on a good man struggling with adversity, and smile; what
must they think of Five-and-twenty million indifferent ones victorious over
it,—for eight days and more?
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And there is dancing on the Champs Elysées.
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In this way, and in such ways, however, has the Feast of Pikes danced
itself off; gallant Federates wending homewards, towards every point of the
compass, with feverish nerves, heart and head much heated; some of them,
indeed, as Dampmartin's elderly respectable friend, from Strasbourg, quite
'burnt out with liquors,' and flickering towards extinction.
(Dampmartin,
Evénemens, i. 144-184.)
The Feast of Pikes has danced itself off, and
become defunct, and the ghost of a Feast; — nothing of it now remaining but
this vision in men's memory; and the place that knew it (for the slope of
that Champ-de-Mars is crumbled to half the original height
(Dulaure,
Histoire de Paris, viii. 25).) now knowing it no more.
Undoubtedly one of
the memorablest National Hightides. Never or hardly ever, as we said, was
Oath sworn with such heart-effusion, emphasis and expenditure of joyance;
and then it was broken irremediably within year and day. Ah, why? When
the swearing of it was so heavenly-joyful, bosom clasped to bosom, and
Five-and-twenty million hearts all burning together: O ye inexorable
Destinies, why? — Partly because it was sworn with such over-joyance;
but
chiefly, indeed, for an older reason: that Sin had come into the world and
Misery by Sin! These Five-and-twenty millions, if we will consider it,
have now henceforth, with that Phrygian Cap of theirs, no force over them,
to bind and guide; neither in them,
more than heretofore, is guiding force,
or rule of just living: how then, while they all go rushing at such a
pace, on unknown ways, with no bridle, towards no aim, can hurlyburly
unutterable fail? For verily not Federation-rosepink is the colour of this
Earth and her work: not by outbursts of noble-sentiment, but with far
other ammunition, shall a man front the world.
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Carlyle thinks all the oaths were abjured and good intentions betrayed because
man is essentially evil and needs the ruling hand of traditional authority
which the revolution has destroyed.
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But how wise, in all cases, to 'husband your fire;' to keep it deep down,
rather, as genial radical-heat! Explosions, the forciblest, and never so
well directed, are questionable; far oftenest futile, always frightfully
wasteful: but think of a man, of a Nation of men, spending its whole stock
of fire in one artificial Firework! So have we seen fond weddings (for
individuals, like Nations, have their Hightides) celebrated with an
outburst of triumph and deray, at which the elderly shook their heads.
Better had a serious cheerfulness been; for the enterprise was great. Fond
pair! the more triumphant ye feel, and victorious over terrestrial evil,
which seems all abolished, the wider-eyed will your disappointment be to
find terrestrial evil still extant. "And why extant?" will each of you
cry: "Because my false mate has played the traitor: evil was abolished; I
meant faithfully, and did, or would have done." Whereby the oversweet moon
of honey changes itself into long years of vinegar; perhaps divulsive
vinegar, like Hannibal's.[104]
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Carlyle compares the passion of revolution to the exhuberance of love
which is sobered by the realities of marriage. He may be thinking of his
own marriage to a strong woman, Jane; or he may be asserting the superiority
of the cool British over the hot-blooded French.
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Shall we say then, the French Nation has led Royalty, or wooed and teased
poor Royalty to lead her, to the hymeneal Fatherland's Altar, in such
oversweet manner; and has, most thoughtlessly, to celebrate the nuptials
with due shine and demonstration,—burnt her bed?
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France is a bride who has burnt her marriage-bed to celebrate her wedding.
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Indeed, as to the general outlook of things, Bouillé himself augurs not
well of it. The French Army, ever since those old Bastille days, and
earlier, has been universally in the questionablest state, and growing
daily worse. Discipline, which is at all times a kind of miracle, and
works by faith, broke down then; one sees not with that near prospect of
recovering itself. The Gardes Françaises played a deadly game; but how
they won it, and wear the prizes of it, all men know. In that general
overturn, we saw the Hired Fighters refuse to fight. The very Swiss of
Château-Vieux,
which indeed is a kind of French Swiss, from Geneva and the
Pays de Vaud, are understood to have declined. Deserters glided over;
Royal-Allemand itself looked disconsolate, though stanch of purpose. In a
word, we there saw Military Rule,
in the shape of poor
Besenval?
with that
convulsive unmanageable Camp of his, pass two martyr days on the
Champ-de-Mars; and then, veiling itself, so to speak,
'under the cloud of night,'
depart 'down the left bank of the Seine,' to seek refuge elsewhere; this
ground having clearly become too hot for it.
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Ever since the rebellion of the Gardes Françaises and the
ineffectiveness
of the regular and mercenary forces in July 1789, discipline has been uncertain
in the army.
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But what new ground to seek, what remedy to try? Quarters that were
'uninfected:' this doubtless, with judicious strictness of drilling, were
the plan. Alas, in all quarters and places, from Paris onward to the
remotest hamlet, is infection, is seditious contagion: inhaled, propagated
by contact and converse, till the dullest soldier catch it! There is
speech of men in uniform with men not in uniform; men in uniform read
journals, and even write in them. (See Newspapers of
July, 1789 (in Hist.
Parl. ii. 35), etc.)
There are public petitions or remonstrances, private
emissaries and associations; there is discontent, jealousy, uncertainty,
sullen suspicious humour. The whole French Army, fermenting in dark heat,
glooms ominous, boding good to no one.
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There is no way to isolate
the domestic garrisons from the spirit of revolution.
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So that, in the general social dissolution and revolt, we are to have this
deepest and dismallest kind of it, a revolting soldiery? Barren, desolate
to look upon is this same business of revolt under all its aspects; but how
infinitely more so, when it takes the aspect of military mutiny! The very
implement of rule and restraint, whereby all the rest was managed and held
in order, has become precisely the frightfullest immeasurable implement of
misrule; like the element of Fire, our indispensable all-ministering
servant, when it gets the mastery, and becomes conflagration. Discipline
we called a kind of miracle: in fact, is it not miraculous how one man
moves hundreds of thousands; each unit of whom it may be loves him not, and
singly fears him not, yet has to obey him, to go hither or go thither, to
march and halt, to give death, and even to receive it, as if a Fate had
spoken; and the word-of-command becomes, almost in the literal sense, a
magic-word?
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Carlyle describes the serious dangers of a revolutionary and
undisciplined military.
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Which magic-word, again, if it be once forgotten; the spell of it once
broken! The legions of assiduous ministering spirits rise on you now as
menacing fiends; your free orderly arena becomes a tumult-place of the
Nether Pit, and the hapless magician is rent limb from limb. Military mobs
are mobs with muskets in their hands; and also with death hanging over
their heads, for death is the penalty of disobedience and they have
disobeyed. And now if all mobs are properly frenzies, and work
frenetically with mad fits of hot and of cold, fierce rage alternating so
incoherently with panic terror, consider what your military mob will be,
with such a conflict of duties and penalties, whirled between remorse and
fury, and, for the hot fit, loaded fire-arms in its hand! To the soldier
himself, revolt is frightful, and oftenest perhaps pitiable; and yet so
dangerous, it can only be hated, cannot be pitied. An anomalous class of
mortals these poor Hired Killers! With a frankness, which to the Moralist
in these times seems surprising, they have sworn to become machines; and
nevertheless they are still partly men. Let no prudent person in authority
remind them of this latter fact; but always let force, let injustice above
all, stop short clearly on this side of the rebounding-point! Soldiers, as
we often say, do revolt: were it not so, several things which are
transient in this world might be perennial.
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The maintenance of order and effectiveness in an army involves a
delicate equilibrium.
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Over and above the general quarrel which all sons of Adam maintain with
their lot here below, the grievances of the French soldiery reduce
themselves to two, First that their Officers are Aristocrats; secondly that
they cheat them of their Pay. Two grievances; or rather we might say one,
capable of becoming a hundred; for in that single first proposition, that
the Officers are Aristocrats, what a multitude of corollaries lie ready!
It is a bottomless ever-flowing fountain of grievances this; what you may
call a general raw-material of grievance, wherefrom individual grievance
after grievance will daily body itself forth. Nay there will even be a
kind of comfort in getting it, from time to time, so embodied. Peculation
of one's Pay! It is embodied; made tangible, made denounceable; exhalable,
if only in angry words.
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The officer in the old régime was made up exclusively of aristocrats,
and remains so in 1790.
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For unluckily that grand fountain of grievances does exist: Aristocrats
almost all our Officers necessarily are; they have it in the blood and
bone. By the law of the case, no man can pretend to be the pitifullest
lieutenant of militia, till he have first verified, to the satisfaction of
the Lion-King, a Nobility of four generations. Not Nobility only, but four
generations of it: this latter is the improvement hit upon, in
comparatively late years, by a certain War-minister [Ségur]
much pressed for
commissions. (Dampmartin, Evénemens, i. 89.)
An improvement which did
relieve the over-pressed War-minister, but which split France still further
into yawning contrasts of Commonalty and Nobility, nay of new Nobility and
old; as if already with your new and old, and then with your old, older and
oldest, there were not contrasts and discrepancies enough; — the general
clash whereof men now see and hear, and in the singular whirlpool, all
contrasts gone together to the bottom! Gone to the bottom or going; with
uproar, without return; going every where save in the Military section of
things; and there, it may be asked, can they hope to continue always at the
top? Apparently, not.
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Whereas in the past a broader class of men could receive commissions, for most
of the previous 50 years they were open only to those with inherited titles.
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It is true, in a time of external Peace, when there is no fighting but only
drilling, this question, How you rise from the ranks, may seem theoretical
rather. But in reference to the Rights of Man it is continually practical.
The soldier has sworn to be faithful not to the King only, but to the Law
and the Nation. Do our commanders love the Revolution? ask all soldiers.
Unhappily no, they hate it, and love the Counter-Revolution. Young
epauletted men, with quality-blood in them, poisoned with quality-pride, do
sniff openly, with indignation struggling to become contempt, at our Rights
of Man, as at some newfangled cobweb, which shall be brushed down again.
Old officers, more cautious, keep silent, with closed uncurled lips; but
one guesses what is passing within. Nay who knows, how, under the
plausiblest word of command, might lie Counter-Revolution itself, sale to
Exiled Princes and the Austrian Kaiser: treacherous Aristocrats
hoodwinking the small insight of us common men? — In such manner works that
general raw-material of grievance; disastrous; instead of trust and
reverence, breeding hate, endless suspicion, the impossibility of
commanding and obeying. And now when this second more tangible grievance
has articulated itself universally in the mind of the common man:
Peculation of his Pay! Peculation of the despicablest sort does exist, and
has long existed; but, unless the new-declared Rights of Man, and all
rights whatsoever, be a cobweb, it shall no longer exist.
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In this environment withholding of pay becomes not a traditional annoyance
but an aristocratic plot.
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The French Military System seems dying a sorrowful suicidal death. Nay
more, citizen, as is natural, ranks himself against citizen in this cause.
The soldier finds audience, of numbers and sympathy unlimited, among the
Patriot lower-classes. Nor are the higher wanting to the officer. The
officer still dresses and perfumes himself for such sad unemigrated
soirée
as there may still be; and speaks his woes, — which woes, are they not
Majesty's and Nature's? Speaks, at the same time, his gay defiance, his
firm-set resolution. Citizens, still more Citizenesses, see the right and
the wrong; not the Military System alone will die by suicide, but much
along with it. As was said, there is yet possible a deepest overturn than
any yet witnessed: that deepest upturn of the black-burning sulphurous
stratum whereon all rests and grows!
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The soldiers have the sympathy of the lower classes; their officers of the
upper who can see the consequences of a collapse of order.
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But how these things may act on the rude soldier-mind, with its military
pedantries, its inexperience of all that lies off the parade-ground;
inexperience as of a child, yet fierceness of a man and vehemence of a
Frenchman! It is long that secret communings in mess-room and guard-room,
sour looks, thousandfold petty vexations between commander and commanded,
measure every where the weary military day. Ask Captain Dampmartin; an
authentic, ingenious literary officer of horse; who loves the Reign of
Liberty, after a sort; yet has had his heart grieved to the quick many
times, in the hot South-Western region and elsewhere; and has seen riot,
civil battle by daylight and by torchlight, and anarchy hatefuller than
death. How insubordinate Troopers, with drink in their heads, meet Captain
Dampmartin and another on the ramparts, where there is no escape or side-path;
and make military salute punctually, for we look calm on them; yet
make it in a snappish, almost insulting manner: how one morning they
'leave all their chamois shirts' and superfluous buffs, which they are
tired of, laid in piles at the Captain's doors; whereat 'we laugh,' as the
ass does, eating thistles: nay how they 'knot two forage-cords together,'
with universal noisy cursing, with evident intent to hang the Quarter-master:
— all this the worthy Captain, looking on it through the ruddy-and-sable
of fond regretful memory, has flowingly written down.
(Dampmartin,
Evenemens, i. 122-146.)
Men growl in vague discontent; officers fling up
their commissions, and emigrate in disgust.
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Army discipline at its best has become a sort of surly subordination.
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Or let us ask another literary Officer; not yet Captain; Sublieutenant
only, in the Artillery Regiment La Fère: a young man of twenty-one; not
unentitled to speak; the name of him is Napoleon Buonaparte. To such
height of Sublieutenancy has he now got promoted, from Brienne School, five
years ago; 'being found qualified in mathematics by La Place.' He is lying
at Auxonne, in the West, in these months; not sumptuously lodged — 'in the
house of a Barber, to whose wife he did not pay the customary degree of
respect;' or even over at the Pavilion, in a chamber with bare walls; the
only furniture an indifferent 'bed without curtains, two chairs, and in the
recess of a window a table covered with books and papers: his Brother
Louis sleeps on a coarse mattress in an adjoining room.' However, he is
doing something great: writing his first Book or Pamphlet, — eloquent
vehement Letter to M. Matteo Buttafuoco, our Corsican Deputy,
who is not a
Patriot but an Aristocrat, unworthy of Deputyship. Joly of Dôle is
Publisher. The literary Sublieutenant corrects the proofs; 'sets out on
foot from Auxonne, every morning at four o'clock, for Dôle:
after looking
over the proofs, he partakes of an extremely frugal breakfast with Joly,
and immediately prepares for returning to his Garrison; where he arrives
before noon, having thus walked above twenty miles in the course of the
morning.'
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Carlyle introduces Bonaparte as a young officer. The "Brienne-schools" were
set up to allow middle-class boys to enter the officer corps in
technical fields like artillery and engineering. See
Volume I, book III,
chapter 8.
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This Sublieutenant can remark that, in drawing-rooms, on streets, on
highways, at inns, every where men's minds are ready to kindle into a
flame. That a Patriot, if he appear in the drawing-room, or amid a group
of officers, is liable enough to be discouraged, so great is the majority
against him: but no sooner does he get into the street, or among the
soldiers, than he feels again as if the whole Nation were with him. That
after the famous Oath, To the King, to the Nation and Law, there was a
great change; that before this, if ordered to fire on the people, he for
one would have done it in the King's name; but that after this, in the
Nation's name, he would not have done it. Likewise that the Patriot
officers, more numerous too in the Artillery and Engineers than elsewhere,
were few in number; yet that having the soldiers on their side, they ruled
the regiment; and did often deliver the Aristocrat brother officer out of
peril and strait. One day, for example, 'a member of our own mess roused
the mob, by singing, from the windows of our dining-room, O Richard, O my
King; and I had to snatch him from their fury.' (Norvins,
Histoire de
Napoleon, i. 47; Las Cases, Mémoires (translated into Hazlitt's Life of
Napoleon, i. 23-31.)
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The few patriot officers had influence out of proportion to their numbers.
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All which let the reader multiply by ten thousand; and spread it with
slight variations over all the camps and garrisons of France. The French
Army seems on the verge of universal mutiny.
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Universal mutiny! There is in that what may well make Patriot
Constitutionalism and an august Assembly shudder. Something behoves to be
done; yet what to do no man can tell. Mirabeau proposes even that the
Soldiery, having come to such a pass, be forthwith disbanded, the whole Two
Hundred and Eighty Thousands of them; and organised anew.
(Moniteur, 1790.
No. 233.) Impossible this, in so sudden a manner! cry all men. And yet
literally, answer we, it is inevitable, in one manner or another. Such an
Army, with its four-generation Nobles, its Peculated Pay, and men knotting
forage cords to hang their quartermaster, cannot subsist beside such a
Revolution. Your alternative is a slow-pining chronic dissolution and new
organization; or a swift decisive one; the agonies spread over years, or
concentrated into an hour. With a Mirabeau for Minister or Governor the
latter had been the choice; with no Mirabeau for Governor it will naturally
be the former.
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Mirabeau's proposal that the army be disbanded and reconstituted is rejected,
but Carlyle points out that it will happen eventually anyway.
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To Bouillé, in his North-Eastern circle, none of these things are
altogether hid. Many times flight over the marches gleams out on him as a
last guidance in such bewilderment: nevertheless he continues here:
struggling always to hope the best, not from new organisation but from
happy Counter-Revolution and return to the old. For the rest it is clear
to him that this same National Federation, and universal swearing and
fraternising of People and Soldiers, has done 'incalculable mischief.' So
much that fermented secretly has hereby got vent and become open: National
Guards and Soldiers of the line, solemnly embracing one another on all
parade-fields, drinking, swearing patriotic oaths, fall into disorderly
street-processions, constitutional unmilitary exclamations and hurrahings.
On which account the Regiment Picardie, for one, has to be drawn out in the
square of the barracks, here at Metz, and sharply harangued by the General
himself; but expresses penitence.
(Bouillé, Memoires, i. 113.)
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Bouillé can see the effects of slackening discipline in his garrison
of Metz.
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Far and near, as accounts testify, insubordination has begun grumbling
louder and louder. Officers have been seen shut up in their mess-rooms;
assaulted with clamorous demands, not without menaces. The insubordinate
ringleader is dismissed with 'yellow furlough,' yellow infamous thing they
call cartouche jaune: but ten new ringleaders rise in his stead,
and the
yellow cartouche ceases to be thought disgraceful. 'Within a fortnight,'
or at furthest a month, of that sublime Feast of Pikes, the whole French
Army, demanding Arrears, forming Reading Clubs, frequenting Popular
Societies, is in a state which Bouillé can call by no name but that of
mutiny. Bouillé knows it as few do; and speaks by dire experience.
Take one instance instead of many.
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The soldiers begin to see themselves as citizens.
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It is still an early day of August, the precise date now undiscoverable,
when Bouillé, about to set out for the waters of
Aix la Chapelle [Aachen],
is once
more suddenly summoned to the barracks of Metz. The soldiers stand ranked
in fighting order, muskets loaded, the officers all there on compulsion;
and require, with many-voiced emphasis, to have their arrears paid.
Picardie was penitent; but we see it has relapsed: the wide space bristles
and lours with mere mutinous armed men. Brave Bouillé advances to the
nearest Regiment, opens his commanding lips to harangue; obtains nothing
but querulous-indignant discordance, and the sound of so many thousand
livres legally due. The moment is trying; there are some ten thousand
soldiers now in Metz, and one spirit seems to have spread among them.
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And they consider their pay one of their rights.
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Bouillé is firm as the adamant; but what shall he do?
A German Regiment,
named of Salm, is thought to be of better temper: nevertheless Salm too
may have heard of the precept, Thou shalt not steal; Salm too may know that
money is money. Bouillé walks trustfully towards the Regiment de Salm,
speaks trustful words; but here again is answered by the cry of forty-four
thousand livres odd sous. A cry waxing more and more vociferous, as Salm's
humour mounts; which cry, as it will produce no cash or promise of cash,
ends in the wide simultaneous whirr of shouldered muskets, and a determined
quick-time march on the part of Salm — towards its Colonel's house, in the
next street, there to seize the colours and military chest. Thus does
Salm, for its part; strong in the faith that meum is not tuum,
that fair
speeches are not forty-four thousand livres odd sous.
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Bouillé is involved in one of the pay protests.
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Unrestrainable! Salm tramps to military time, quick consuming the way.
Bouillé and the officers, drawing sword, have to dash into double quick
pas-de-charge, or unmilitary running; to get the start; to station
themselves on the outer staircase, and stand there with what of
death-defiance and sharp steel they have; Salm truculently coiling itself up,
rank after rank, opposite them, in such humour as we can fancy, which
happily has not yet mounted to the murder-pitch.
There will Bouillé stand,
certain at least of one man's purpose; in grim calmness, awaiting the
issue. What the intrepidest of men and generals can do is done.
Bouillé,
though there is a barricading picket at each end of the street, and death
under his eyes, contrives to send for a Dragoon Regiment with orders to
charge: the dragoon officers mount; the dragoon men will not: hope is
none there for him. The street, as we say, barricaded; the Earth all shut
out, only the indifferent heavenly Vault overhead: perhaps here or there a
timorous householder peering out of window, with prayer for Bouillé;
copious Rascality, on the pavement, with prayer for Salm: there do the two
parties stand; — like chariots locked in a narrow thoroughfare; like locked
wrestlers at a dead-grip! For two hours they stand; Bouillé's sword
glittering in his hand, adamantine resolution clouding his brows: for two
hours by the clocks of Metz. Moody-silent stands Salm, with occasional
clangour; but does not fire. Rascality from time to time urges some
grenadier to level his musket at the General; who looks on it as a bronze
General would; and always some corporal or other strikes it up.
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Bouillé himself stands off a regiment demanding its pay.
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In such remarkable attitude, standing on that staircase for two hours, does
brave Bouillé, long a shadow, dawn on us visibly out of the dimness, and
become a person. For the rest, since Salm has not shot him at the first
instant, and since in himself there is no variableness, the danger will
diminish. The Mayor, 'a man infinitely respectable,' with his Municipals
and tricolor sashes, finally gains entrance; remonstrates, perorates,
promises; gets Salm persuaded home to its barracks. Next day, our
respectable Mayor lending the money, the officers pay down the half
of the
demand in ready cash. With which liquidation Salm pacifies itself, and for
the present all is hushed up, as much as may be.
(Bouillé, i. 140-5.)
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This particular uprising is resolved when the city of Metz loans money for
pay.
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Such scenes as this of Metz, or preparations and demonstrations towards
such, are universal over France: Dampmartin, with his knotted forage-cords
and piled chamois jackets, is at Strasburg in the South-East; in these same
days or rather nights, Royal Champagne is 'shouting Vive la Nation, au
diable les Aristocrates, with some thirty lit candles,' at Hesdin, on the
far North-West. "The garrison of Bitche," Deputy Rewbell is sorry to
state, "went out of the town, with drums beating; deposed its officers; and
then returned into the town, sabre in hand." (Moniteur
(in Hist. Parl.
vii. 29).) Ought not a National Assembly to occupy itself with these
objects? Military France is everywhere full of sour inflammatory humour,
which exhales itself fuliginously, this way or that: a whole continent of
smoking flax; which, blown on here or there by any angry wind, might so
easily start into a blaze, into a continent of fire!
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Discontent and mutiny spread nation-wide.
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Constitutional Patriotism is in deep natural alarm at these things. The
august Assembly sits diligently deliberating; dare nowise resolve, with
Mirabeau, on an instantaneous disbandment and extinction; finds that a
course of palliatives is easier. But at least and lowest, this grievance
of the Arrears shall be rectified. A plan, much noised of in those days,
under the name 'Decree of the Sixth of August,' has been devised for that.
Inspectors shall visit all armies; and, with certain elected corporals and
'soldiers able to write,' verify what arrears and peculations do lie due,
and make them good. Well, if in this way the smoky heat be cooled down; if
it be not, as we say, ventilated over-much, or, by sparks and collision
somewhere, sent up!
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The National Assembly votes to make up the arrears of pay.
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We are to remark, however, that of all districts,
this of Bouillé's seems
the inflammablest. It was always to Bouillé and Metz that Royalty would
fly: Austria lies near; here more than elsewhere must the disunited People
look over the borders, into a dim sea of Foreign Politics and Diplomacies,
with hope or apprehension, with mutual exasperation.
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Metz is a frontier, on the borders of the Austrian Netherlands, and is
naturally volatile.
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It was but in these days that certain Austrian troops, marching peaceably
across an angle of this region, seemed an Invasion realised; and there
rushed towards Stenai, with musket on shoulder, from all the winds, some
thirty thousand National Guards, to inquire what the matter was.
(Moniteur, Seance du 9 Août 1790.)
A matter of mere diplomacy it proved;
the Austrian Kaiser, in haste to get to Belgium, had bargained for this
short cut. The infinite dim movement of European Politics waved a skirt
over these spaces, passing on its way; like the passing shadow of a condor;
and such a winged flight of thirty thousand, with mixed cackling and
crowing, rose in consequence! For, in addition to all, this people, as we
said, is much divided: Aristocrats abound; Patriotism has both Aristocrats
and Austrians to watch. It is Lorraine, this region; not so illuminated as
old France: it remembers ancient Feudalisms; nay, within man's memory, it
had a Court and King of its own, or indeed the splendour of a Court and
King, without the burden. Then, contrariwise, the Mother Society, which
sits in the Jacobins Church at Paris, has Daughters in the Towns here;
shrill-tongued, driven acrid: consider how the memory of good King
Stanislaus[105],
and ages of Imperial Feudalism, may comport with this New acrid
Evangel, and what a virulence of discord there may be! In all which, the
Soldiery, officers on one side, private men on the other, takes part, and
now indeed principal part; a Soldiery, moreover, all the hotter here as it
lies the denser, the frontier Province requiring more of it.
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It is also in Lorraine, a province reunited to France in 1766; a less
sophisticated province, with perhaps some remaining allegiance to the Holy
Roman Empire.
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So stands Lorraine: but the capital City, more especially so. The
pleasant City of Nanci, which faded Feudalism loves, where King Stanislaus
personally dwelt and shone, has an Aristocrat Municipality, and then also a
Daughter Society: it has some forty thousand divided souls of population;
and three large Regiments, one of which is Swiss Château-Vieux, dear to
Patriotism ever since it refused fighting, or was thought to refuse, in the
Bastille days. Here unhappily all evil influences seem to meet
concentered; here, of all places, may jealousy and heat evolve itself.
These many months, accordingly, man has been set against man, Washed
against Unwashed; Patriot Soldier against Aristocrat Captain, ever the more
bitterly; and a long score of grudges has been running up.
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Lorraine's capitol city, Nanci, is a concentration of the divisions of France.
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Nameable grudges, and likewise unnameable: for there is a punctual nature
in Wrath; and daily, were there but glances of the eye, tones of the voice,
and minutest commissions or omissions, it will jot down somewhat, to
account, under the head of sundries, which always swells the sum-total.
For example, in April last, in those times of preliminary Federation, when
National Guards and Soldiers were every where swearing brotherhood, and all
France was locally federating, preparing for the grand National Feast of
Pikes, it was observed that these Nanci Officers threw cold water on the
whole brotherly business; that they first hung back from appearing at the
Nanci Federation; then did appear, but in mere rédingote
and undress, with
scarcely a clean shirt on; nay that one of them, as the National Colours
flaunted by in that solemn moment, did, without visible necessity, take
occasion to spit. (Deux Amis, v. 217.)
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Patriots distrust the aristocratic officers.
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Small 'sundries as per journal,' but then incessant ones! The Aristocrat
Municipality, pretending to be Constitutional, keeps mostly quiet; not so
the Daughter Society, the five thousand adult male Patriots of the place,
still less the five thousand female: not so the young, whiskered or
whiskerless, four-generation Noblesse in epaulettes; the grim Patriot Swiss
of Château-Vieux, effervescent infantry of Regiment du Roi,
hot troopers of
Mestre-de-Camp! Walled Nanci, which stands so bright and trim, with its
straight streets, spacious squares, and Stanislaus' Architecture, on the
fruitful alluvium of the Meurthe; so bright, amid the yellow cornfields in
these Reaper-Months, — is inwardly but a den of discord, anxiety,
inflammability, not far from exploding.
Let Bouillé look to it. If that
universal military heat, which we liken to a vast continent of smoking
flax, do any where take fire, his beard, here in Lorraine and Nanci, may
the most readily of all get singed by it.
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The situation is right for violence.
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Bouillé, for his part, is busy enough, but only with the general
superintendence; getting his pacified Salm, and all other still tolerable
Regiments, marched out of Metz, to southward towns and villages; to rural
Cantonments as at Vic, Marsal and thereabout, by the still waters; where is
plenty of horse-forage, sequestered parade-ground, and the soldier's
speculative faculty can be stilled by drilling. Salm, as we said, received
only half payment of arrears; naturally not without grumbling.
Nevertheless that scene of the drawn sword may, after all, have raised
Bouillé in the mind of Salm; for men and soldiers love intrepidity and
swift inflexible decision, even when they suffer by it. As indeed is not
this fundamentally the quality of qualities for a man? A quality which by
itself is next to nothing, since inferior animals, asses, dogs, even mules
have it; yet, in due combination, it is the indispensable basis of all.
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Boullé having gained some grudging respect by his stand at Metz,
is busy moving his regiments to summer quarters.
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Of Nanci and its heats, Bouillé, commander of the whole, knows nothing
special; understands generally that the troops in that City are perhaps the
worst. (Bouillé, i. c. 9.)
The Officers there have it all, as they have
long had it, to themselves; and unhappily seem to manage it ill. 'Fifty
yellow furloughs,' given out in one batch, do surely betoken difficulties.
But what was Patriotism to think of certain light-fencing Fusileers 'set
on,' or supposed to be set on, 'to insult the Grenadier-club,' considerate
speculative Grenadiers, and that reading-room of theirs? With shoutings,
with hootings; till the speculative Grenadier drew his side-arms too; and
there ensued battery and duels! Nay more, are not swashbucklers of the
same stamp 'sent out' visibly, or sent out presumably, now in the dress of
Soldiers to pick quarrels with the Citizens; now, disguised as Citizens, to
pick quarrels with the Soldiers? For a certain Roussiere, expert in fence,
was taken in the very fact; four Officers (presumably of tender years)
hounding him on, who thereupon fled precipitately! Fence-master Roussiere,
haled to the guardhouse, had sentence of three months' imprisonment: but
his comrades demanded 'yellow furlough' for him of all persons; nay,
thereafter they produced him on parade; capped him in paper-helmet
inscribed, Iscariot; marched him to the gate of City; and there sternly
commanded him to vanish for evermore.
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The officers of Nanci are suspected of fomenting quarrels among the troops and
between town and camp.
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On all which suspicions, accusations and noisy procedure, and on enough of
the like continually accumulating, the Officer could not but look with
disdainful indignation; perhaps disdainfully express the same in words, and
'soon after fly over to the Austrians.'
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Such suspicions do not increase the loyalty of the officers.
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So that when it here as elsewhere comes to the question of Arrears, the
humour and procedure is of the bitterest: Regiment Mestre-de-Camp getting,
amid loud clamour, some three gold louis a-man, — which have, as usual, to
be borrowed from the Municipality; Swiss Château-Vieux applying for the
like, but getting instead instantaneous courrois, or cat-o'-nine-tails,
with subsequent unsufferable hisses from the women and children; Regiment
du Roi, sick of hope deferred, at length seizing its military chest, and
marching it to quarters, but next day marching it back again, through
streets all struck silent: — unordered paradings and clamours, not without
strong liquor; objurgation [harsh rebuke], insubordination;
your military ranked
Arrangement going all (as the Typographers say of set types, in a similar
case) rapidly to pie! (Deux Amis, v. c. 8.)
Such is Nanci in these early
days of August; the sublime Feast of Pikes not yet a month old.
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Emotions among the garrison of Nanci are seething.
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Constitutional Patriotism, at Paris and elsewhere, may well quake at the
news. War-Minister Latour
du Pin?
runs breathless to the National Assembly,
with a written message that 'all is burning, tout brûle, tout
presse.' The
National Assembly, on spur of the instant, renders such Decret,
and 'order
to submit and repent,' as he requires; if it will avail any thing. On the
other hand, Journalism, through all its throats, gives hoarse outcry,
condemnatory, elegiac-applausive. The Forty-eight Sections, lift up
voices; sonorous Brewer, or call him now Colonel
Santerre?,
is not silent,
in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. For, meanwhile, the Nanci Soldiers have
sent a Deputation of Ten, furnished with documents and proofs; who will
tell another story than the 'all-is-burning' one. Which deputed Ten,
before ever they reach the Assembly Hall, assiduous Latour du Pin picks up,
and on warrant of Mayor Bailly, claps in prison! Most unconstitutionally;
for they had officers' furloughs. Whereupon Saint-Antoine, in indignant
uncertainty of the future, closes its shops. Is Bouillé a traitor then,
sold to Austria? In that case, these poor private sentinels have revolted
mainly out of Patriotism?
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The noise in Nanci leads to rumour in Paris. Both the legislature and the
streets react to the rumour.
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New Deputation, Deputation of National Guardsmen now, sets forth from Nanci
to enlighten the Assembly. It meets the old deputed Ten returning, quite
unexpectedly unhanged; and proceeds thereupon with better prospects; but
effects nothing. Deputations, Government Messengers, Orderlies at
hand-gallops, Alarms, thousand-voiced Rumours, go vibrating continually;
backwards and forwards, — scattering distraction. Not till the last week of
August does M. de
Malseigne?,
selected as Inspector, get down to the scene
of mutiny; with Authority, with cash, and 'Decree of the Sixth of August.'
He now shall see these Arrears liquidated, justice done, or at least tumult
quashed.
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Finally Malseigne (Marquis de Maîche) is dispatched to
investigate the scene
and pay the
arrears.
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Of Inspector Malseigne we discern, by direct light, that he is 'of
Herculean stature;' and infer, with probability, that he is of truculent
moustachioed aspect, — for Royalist Officers now leave the upper lip
unshaven; that he is of indomitable bull-heart; and also, unfortunately, of
thick bull-head.
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Malseigne is an officer and an aristocrat.
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On Tuesday the 24th of August, 1790, he opens session as Inspecting
Commissioner; meets those 'elected corporals, and soldiers that can write.'
He finds the accounts of Château-Vieux to be complex;
to require delay and
reference: he takes to haranguing, to reprimanding; ends amid audible
grumbling. Next morning, he resumes session, not at the Townhall as
prudent Municipals counselled, but once more at the barracks.
Unfortunately Château-Vieux, grumbling all night,
will now hear of no delay
or reference; from reprimanding on his part, it goes to bullying, — answered
with continual cries of "Jugez tout de suite, Judge it at once;"
whereupon
M. de Malseigne will off in a huff. But lo, Château Vieux, swarming all
about the barrack-court, has sentries at every gate; M. de Malseigne,
demanding egress, cannot get it, though Commandant Denoue backs him; can
get only "Jugez tout de suite." Here is a nodus!
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The Swiss regiment refuses to allow Malseigne to leave their barracks until
he tells them when they will be paid.
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Bull-hearted M. de Malseigne draws his sword; and will force egress.
Confused splutter. M. de Malseigne's sword breaks; he snatches Commandant
Denoue's: the sentry is wounded. M. de Malseigne, whom one is loath to
kill, does force egress, — followed by Château-Vieux all in disarray; a
spectacle to Nanci. M. de Malseigne walks at a sharp pace, yet never runs;
wheeling from time to time, with menaces and movements of fence; and so
reaches Denoue's house, unhurt; which house Château-Vieux, in an agitated
manner, invests, — hindered as yet from entering, by a crowd of officers
formed on the staircase. M. de Malseigne retreats by back ways to the
Townhall, flustered though undaunted; amid an escort of National Guards.
From the Townhall he, on the morrow, emits fresh orders, fresh plans of
settlement with Château-Vieux; to none of which will
Château-Vieux listen:
whereupon finally he, amid noise enough, emits order that Château-Vieux
shall march on the morrow morning, and quarter at Sarre Louis.
Château-Vieux flatly refuses marching;
M. de Malseigne 'takes act,' due notarial
protest, of such refusal, — if happily that may avail him.
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Malseigne escapes, with some violence; the Swiss regiment is ordered to
depart Nanci, which they refuse.
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This is end of Thursday; and, indeed, of M. de Malseigne's Inspectorship,
which has lasted some fifty hours. To such length, in fifty hours, has he
unfortunately brought it. Mestre-de-Camp and Regiment du Roi hang, as it
were, fluttering: Château-Vieux is clean gone, in what way we see. Over
night, an Aide-de-Camp of Lafayette's, stationed here for such emergency,
sends swift emissaries far and wide, to summon National Guards. The
slumber of the country is broken by clattering hoofs, by loud fraternal
knockings; every where the Constitutional Patriot must clutch his
fighting-gear, and take the road for Nanci.
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The militia is sent for.
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And thus the Herculean Inspector has sat all Thursday, among terror-struck
Municipals, a centre of confused noise: all Thursday, Friday, and till
Saturday towards noon. Château-Vieux, in spite of the notarial protest,
will not march a step. As many as four thousand National Guards are
dropping or pouring in; uncertain what is expected of them, still more
uncertain what will be obtained of them. For all is uncertainty,
commotion, and suspicion: there goes a word that Bouillé, beginning to
bestir himself in the rural Cantonments eastward, is but a Royalist
traitor; that Château-Vieux and Patriotism are sold to Austria, of which
latter M. de Malseigne is probably some agent. Mestre-de-Camp and Roi
flutter still more questionably:
Château-Vieux, far from marching, 'waves
red flags out of two carriages,' in a passionate manner, along the streets;
and next morning answers its Officers: "Pay us, then; and we will march
with you to the world's end!"
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The mutual distrust of all the parties, and the matter of the soldiers' pay,
prevent any progress towards a resolution.
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Under which circumstances, towards noon on Saturday, M. de Malseigne thinks
it were good perhaps to inspect the ramparts, — on horseback. He mounts,
accordingly, with escort of three troopers. At the gate of the city, he
bids two of them wait for his return; and with the third, a trooper to be
depended upon, he — gallops off for Lunéville; where lies a certain
Carabineer Regiment not yet in a mutinous state! The two left troopers
soon get uneasy; discover how it is, and give the alarm. Mestre-de-Camp,
to the number of a hundred, saddles in frantic haste, as if sold to
Austria; gallops out pellmell in chase of its Inspector. And so they spur,
and the Inspector spurs; careering, with noise and jingle, up the valley of
the River Meurthe, towards Lunéville and the midday sun: through an
astonished country; indeed almost their own astonishment.
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Malseigne tries to flee to a loyal regiment nearby. Cavalry of the
Mestre-de-Camp regiment gives chase.
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What a hunt,
Actaeon?-like;
— which Actaeon de Malseigne happily gains! To
arms, ye Carabineers of Lunéville: to chastise mutinous men, insulting
your General Officer, insulting your own quarters; — above all things, fire
soon,
lest there be parleying and ye refuse to fire! The Carabineers fire
soon, exploding upon the first stragglers of Mestre-de-Camp; who shrink at
the very flash, and fall back hastily on Nanci, in a state not far from
distraction. Panic and fury: sold to Austria without an if;
so much per
regiment, the very sums can be specified; and traitorous Malseigne is fled!
Help, O Heaven; help, thou Earth, — ye unwashed Patriots; ye too are sold
like us!
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Malseigne reaches the loyal unit which repels the pursuing Nanci cavalry.
The rebellious regiments are now certain they have been sold out.
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Effervescent Regiment du Roi primes its firelocks, Mestre-de-Camp saddles
wholly: Commandant Denoue is seized, is flung in prison with a 'canvass
shirt' (sarreau de toile) about him;
Château-Vieux bursts up the magazines;
distributes 'three thousand
fusils?'
to a Patriot people: Austria shall
have a hot bargain. Alas, the unhappy hunting-dogs, as we said, have
hunted away their huntsman; and do now run howling and baying, on what
trail they know not; nigh rabid!
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The Nanci garrison is leaderless and without direction, expecting attack.
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And so there is tumultuous march of men, through the night; with halt on
the heights of Flinval,
whence Lunéville can be seen all illuminated. Then
there is parley, at four in the morning; and reparley; finally there is
agreement: the Carabineers give in; Malseigne is surrendered, with
apologies on all sides. After weary confused hours, he is even got under
way; the Lunévillers all turning out, in the idle Sunday, to see such
departure: home-going of mutinous Mestre-de-Camp with its Inspector
captive.
Mestre-de-Camp accordingly marches; the Lunévillers look. See!
at the corner of the first street, our Inspector bounds off again, bull-
hearted as he is; amid the slash of sabres, the crackle of musketry; and
escapes, full gallop, with only a ball lodged in his buff-jerkin. The
Herculean man! And yet it is an escape to no purpose. For the
Carabineers, to whom after the hardest Sunday's ride on record, he has come
circling back, 'stand deliberating by their nocturnal watch-fires;'
deliberating of Austria, of traitors, and the rage of Mestre-de-Camp. So
that, on the whole, the next sight we have is that of M. de Malseigne, on
the Monday afternoon, faring bull-hearted through the streets of Nanci; in
open carriage, a soldier standing over him with drawn sword; amid the
'furies of the women,' hedges of National Guards, and confusion of Babel:
to the Prison beside Commandant Denoue! That finally is the lodging of
Inspector Malseigne. (Deux Amis, v. 206-251;
Newspapers and Documents (in
Hist. Parl. vii. 59-162.)
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The mutineers come to an agreement with the regiment to whom Maseigne fled.
After some further adventure, he is returned a prisoner to Nanci.
|
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Surely it is time Bouillé were drawing near. The Country all round,
alarmed with watchfires, illuminated towns, and marching and rout, has been
sleepless these several nights. Nanci, with its uncertain National Guards,
with its distributed fusils, mutinous soldiers, black panic and redhot ire,
is not a City but a Bedlam.
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Haste with help, thou brave Bouillé: if swift help come not, all is now
verily 'burning;' and may burn, — to what lengths and breadths! Much, in
these hours, depends on Bouillé; as it shall now fare with him,
the whole
Future may be this way or be that. If, for example, he were to loiter
dubitating, and not come: if he were to come, and fail: the whole
Soldiery of France to blaze into mutiny, National Guards going some this
way, some that; and Royalism to draw its rapier, and Sansculottism to
snatch its pike; and the Spirit if Jacobinism, as yet young, girt with sun-
rays, to grow instantaneously mature, girt with hell-fire, — as mortals, in
one night of deadly crisis, have had their heads turned gray!
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Carlyle believes that great political violence was close to breaking out.
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Brave Bouillé is advancing fast, with the old inflexibility; gathering
himself, unhappily 'in small affluences,' from East, from West and North;
and now on Tuesday morning, the last day of the month, he stands all
concentred, unhappily still in small force, at the village of Frouarde,
within some few miles. Son of Adam with a more dubious task before him is
not in the world this Tuesday morning. A weltering inflammable sea of
doubt and peril, and Bouillé sure of simply one thing, his own
determination. Which one thing, indeed, may be worth many. He puts a most
firm face on the matter: 'Submission, or unsparing battle and destruction;
twenty-four hours to make your choice:' this was the tenor of his
Proclamation; thirty copies of which he sent yesterday to Nanci: — all
which, we find, were intercepted and not posted. (Compare
Bouillé, Mémoires, i. 153-176; Deux Amis, v. 251-271; Hist. Parl.
ubi supra.)
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Bouillé arrives on the scene and issues an ultimatum to the mutinous
units.
|
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Nevertheless, at half-past eleven, this morning, seemingly by way of
answer, there does wait on him at Frouarde, some Deputation from the
mutinous Regiments, from the Nanci Municipals, to see what can be done.
Bouillé receives this Deputation, 'in a large open court adjoining his
lodging:' pacified Salm, and the rest, attend also, being invited to do
it, — all happily still in the right humour. The Mutineers pronounce
themselves with a decisiveness, which to Bouillé seems insolence; and
happily to Salm also. Salm, forgetful of the Metz staircase and sabre,
demands that the scoundrels 'be hanged' there and then.
Bouillé represses
the hanging; but answers that mutinous Soldiers have one course, and not
more than one: To liberate, with heartfelt contrition, Messieurs Denoue
and de Malseigne; to get ready forthwith for marching off, whither he shall
order; and 'submit and repent,' as the National Assembly has decreed, as he
yesterday did in thirty printed Placards proclaim. These are his terms,
unalterable as the decrees of Destiny. Which terms as they, the Mutineer
deputies, seemingly do not accept, it were good for them to vanish from
this spot, and even promptly; with him too, in few instants, the word will
be, Forward! The Mutineer deputies vanish, not unpromptly; the Municipal
ones, anxious beyond right for their own individualities, prefer abiding
with Bouillé.
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Representatives of the mutineers refuse to capitulate.
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Brave Bouillé, though he puts a most firm face on the matter, knows his
position full well: how at Nanci, what with rebellious soldiers, with
uncertain National Guards, and so many distributed
fusils?,
there rage and
roar some ten thousand fighting men; while with himself is scarcely the
third part of that number, in National Guards also uncertain, in mere
pacified Regiments, — for the present full of rage, and clamour to march;
but whose rage and clamour may next moment take such a fatal new
figure.
On the top of one uncertain billow, therewith to calm billows! Bouillé
must 'abandon himself to Fortune;' who is said sometimes to favour the
brave. At half-past twelve, the Mutineer deputies having vanished, our
drums beat; we march: for Nanci! Let Nanci bethink itself, then; for
Bouillé has thought and determined.
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Bouillé marches on Nancy with an inferior and perhaps untrustworthy
force.
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And yet how shall Nanci think: not a City but a Bedlam! Grim
Château-Vieux is for defence to the death;
forces the Municipality to order, by tap
of drum, all citizens acquainted with artillery to turn out, and assist in
managing the cannon. On the other hand, effervescent Regiment du Roi, is
drawn up in its barracks; quite disconsolate, hearing the humour Salm is
in; and ejaculates dolefully from its thousand throats: "La loi,
la loi,
Law, law!" Mestre-de-Camp blusters, with profane swearing, in mixed terror
and furor; National Guards look this way and that, not knowing what to do.
What a Bedlam-City: as many plans as heads; all ordering, none obeying:
quiet none, — except the Dead, who sleep underground, having done their
fighting!
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But the defenders are conflicted and disorganized.
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And, behold, Bouillé proves as good as his word:
'at half-past two' scouts
report that he is within half a league of the gates; rattling along, with
cannon, and array; breathing nothing but destruction. A new Deputation,
Municipals, Mutineers, Officers, goes out to meet him; with passionate
entreaty for yet one other hour. Bouillé grants an hour.
Then, at the end
thereof, no Denoue or Malseigne appearing as promised, he rolls his drums,
and again takes the road. Towards four o'clock, the terror-struck Townsmen
may see him face to face. His cannons rattle there, in their carriages;
his vanguard is within thirty paces of the Gate Stanislaus. Onward like a
Planet, by appointed times, by law of Nature! What next? Lo, flag of
truce and chamade; conjuration to halt: Malseigne and Denoue are on the
street, coming hither; the soldiers all repentant, ready to submit and
march! Adamantine Bouillé's look alters not;
yet the word Halt is given:
gladder moment he never saw. Joy of joys! Malseigne and Denoue do verily
issue; escorted by National Guards; from streets all frantic, with sale to
Austria and so forth: they salute Bouillé, unscathed.
Bouillé steps aside
to speak with them, and with other heads of the Town there; having already
ordered by what Gates and Routes the mutineer Regiments shall file out.
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The National Guard surrenders the prisoners and the garrison agrees to
submit to Bouillé's orders.
|
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Such colloquy with these two General Officers and other principal Townsmen,
was natural enough; nevertheless one wishes Bouillé
had postponed it, and
not stepped aside. Such tumultuous inflammable masses, tumbling along,
making way for each other; this of keen nitrous oxide, that of sulphurous
fire-damp,[106]
— were it not well to stand between them, keeping them well
separate, till the space be cleared?
Numerous stragglers of Château-Vieux
and the rest have not marched with their main columns, which are filing out
by the appointed Gates, taking station in the open meadows. National
Guards are in a state of nearly distracted uncertainty; the populace, armed
and unharmed, roll openly delirious, — betrayed, sold to the Austrians, sold
to the Aristocrats. There are loaded cannon with lit matches among them,
and Bouillé's vanguard is halted within thirty paces of the Gate.
Command
dwells not in that mad inflammable mass; which smoulders and tumbles there,
in blind smoky rage; which will not open the Gate when summoned; says it
will open the cannon's throat sooner! — Cannonade not, O Friends, or be it
through my body! cries heroic young Desilles, young Captain of Roi,
clasping the murderous engine in his arms, and holding it. Château-Vieux
Swiss, by main force, with oaths and menaces, wrench off the heroic youth;
who undaunted, amid still louder oaths seats himself on the touch-hole.
Amid still louder oaths; with ever louder clangour, — and, alas, with the
loud crackle of first one, and then three other muskets; which explode into
his body; which roll it in the dust, — and do also, in the loud madness of
such moment, bring lit cannon-match to ready priming; and so, with one
thunderous belch of grapeshot,
blast some fifty of Bouillé's vanguard into
air!
|
But disaffected soldiers and citizens doubting Boullé's intentions
open fire on the besiegers.
|
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Fatal! That sputter of the first musket-shot has kindled such a cannon-shot,
such a death-blaze; and all is now redhot madness, conflagration as
of Tophet?.
With demoniac rage, the Bouillé vanguard storms through that
Gate Stanislaus; with fiery sweep, sweeps Mutiny clear away, to death, or
into shelters and cellars; from which latter, again, Mutiny continues
firing. The ranked Regiments hear it in their meadow; they rush back again
through the nearest Gates; Bouillé gallops in,
distracted, inaudible; — and
now has begun, in Nanci, as in that doomed Hall of the Nibelungen, 'a
murder grim and great.'[107]
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The situation rapidly becomes chaotic and murderous.
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Miserable: such scene of dismal aimless madness as the anger of Heaven but
rarely permits among men! From cellar or from garret, from open street in
front, from successive corners of cross-streets on each hand,
Château-Vieux
and Patriotism keep up the murderous rolling-fire, on murderous not
Unpatriotic fires. Your blue National Captain, riddled with balls, one
hardly knows on whose side fighting, requests to be laid on the colours to
die: the patriotic Woman (name not given, deed surviving) screams to
Château-Vieux that it must not fire the other cannon; and even flings a
pail of water on it, since screaming avails not. (Deux Amis,
v. 268.)
Thou shalt fight; thou shalt not fight; and with whom shalt thou fight!
Could tumult awaken the old Dead, Burgundian
Charles the Bold?
might stir
from under that Rotunda of his: never since he, raging, sank in the
ditches, and lost Life and
Diamond[108],
was such a noise heard here.
|
Carlyle adds some colorful details and a reference to a battle 300 years
before.
|
|
Three thousand, as some count, lie mangled, gory;
the half of Château-Vieux
has been shot, without need of Court Martial. Cavalry, of Mestre-de-Camp
or their foes, can do little. Regiment du Roi was persuaded to its
barracks; stands there palpitating.
Bouillé, armed with the terrors of the
Law, and favoured of Fortune, finally triumphs. In two murderous hours he
has penetrated to the grand Squares, dauntless, though with loss of forty
officers and five hundred men:
the shattered remnants of Château-Vieux are
seeking covert. Regiment du Roi, not effervescent now, alas no, but
having
effervesced, will offer to ground its arms; will 'march in a quarter of an
hour.' Nay these poor effervesced require 'escort' to march with, and get
it; though they are thousands strong, and have thirty ball-cartridges a
man! The Sun is not yet down, when Peace, which might have come bloodless,
has come bloody: the mutinous Regiments are on march, doleful, on their
three Routes; and from Nanci rises wail of women and men, the voice of
weeping and desolation; the City weeping for its slain who awaken not.
These streets are empty but for victorious patrols.
|
Bouillé emerges victorious, but thousands die in the city.
|
|
|
|
Thus has Fortune, favouring the brave, dragged Bouillé, as himself says,
out of such a frightful peril, 'by the hair of the head.' An intrepid
adamantine man this Bouillé:
— had he stood in old Broglie's place, in those
Bastille days, it might have been all different! He has extinguished
mutiny, and immeasurable civil war. Not for nothing, as we see; yet at a
rate which he and Constitutional Patriotism considers cheap. Nay, as for
Bouillé, he, urged by subsequent contradiction which arose, declares
coldly, it was rather against his own private mind, and more by public
military rule of duty, that he did extinguish it,
(Bouillé, i. 175.) —
immeasurable civil war being now the only chance. Urged, we say, by
subsequent contradiction! Civil war, indeed, is Chaos; and in all vital
Chaos, there is new Order shaping itself free: but what a faith this, that
of all new Orders out of Chaos and Possibility of Man and his Universe,
Louis Sixteenth and Two-Chamber Monarchy were precisely the one that would
shape itself! It is like undertaking to throw deuce-ace, say only five
hundred successive times, and any other throw to be fatal —
for Bouillé.
Rather thank Fortune, and Heaven, always, thou intrepid Bouillé; and let
contradiction of its way! Civil war, conflagrating universally over France
at this moment, might have led to one thing or to another thing:
meanwhile, to quench conflagration, wheresoever one finds it, wheresoever
one can; this, in all times, is the rule for man and General Officer.
|
Carlyle finds Bouillé's success a matter of luck, but his motives
correct both politically and morally.
|
|
But at Paris, so agitated and divided, fancy how it went, when the
continually vibrating Orderlies vibrated thither
at hand gallop, with such
questionable news! High is the gratulation; and also deep the indignation.
An august Assembly, by overwhelming majorities, passionately thanks
Bouillé; a King's autograph, the voices of all Loyal, all Constitutional
men run to the same tenor. A solemn National funeral-service, for the Law-
defenders slain at Nanci; is said and sung in the Champ de Mars; Bailly,
Lafayette and National Guards, all except the few that protested, assist.
With pomp and circumstance, with episcopal Calicoes in tricolor girdles,
Altar of Fatherland smoking with cassolettes, or incense-kettles; the vast
Champ-de-Mars wholly hung round with black mortcloth, — which mortcloth and
expenditure Marat thinks had better have been laid out in bread, in these
dear days, and given to the hungry living Patriot. (Ami du
Peuple (in Hist. Parl., ubi supra.)
On the other hand, living Patriotism, and Saint-Antoine,
which we have seen noisily closing its shops and such like,
assembles now 'to the number of forty thousand;' and, with loud cries,
under the very windows of the thanking National Assembly, demands revenge
for murdered Brothers, judgment on Bouillé,
and instant dismissal of War-Minister Latour du Pin.
|
The official government reaction is approval of Bouillé's actions,
but the underclasses have a different opinion.
|
|
At sound and sight of which things, if not War-Minister Latour, yet 'Adored
Minister' Necker?,
sees good on the 3d of September 1790, to withdraw softly
almost privily, — with an eye to the 'recovery of his health.' Home to
native Switzerland; not as he last came; lucky to reach it alive! Fifteen
months ago, we saw him coming, with escort of horse, with sound of clarion
and trumpet: and now at Arcis-sur-Aube, while he departs unescorted
soundless, the Populace and Municipals stop him as a fugitive, are not
unlike massacring him as a traitor; the National Assembly, consulted on the
matter, gives him free egress as a nullity. Such an unstable 'drift-mould
of Accident' is the substance of this lower world, for them that dwell in
houses of clay; so, especially in hot regions and times, do the proudest
palaces we build of it take wings, and become Sahara sand-palaces, spinning
many pillared in the whirlwind, and bury us under their sand! —
|
Finance Minister Necker departs the government for the last time.
|
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In spite of the forty thousand, the National Assembly persists in its
thanks; and Royalist Latour du Pin continues Minister. The forty thousand
assemble next day, as loud as ever; roll towards Latour's Hôtel; find
cannon on the porch-steps with flambeau lit; and have to retire
elsewhither, and digest their spleen, or re-absorb it into the blood.
|
The Paris mob, blaming de La Tour du Pin for Nancy, finds his house well
protected by arms.
|
|
Over in Lorraine, meanwhile, they of the distributed fusils, ringleaders of
Mestre-de-Camp, of Roi, have got marked out for judgment; — yet shall never
get judged. Briefer is the doom of Château-Vieux.
Château-Vieux is, by
Swiss law, given up for instant trial in Court-Martial of its own officers.
Which Court-Martial, with all brevity (in not many hours), has hanged some
Twenty-three, on conspicuous gibbets; marched some Three-score in chains to
the Galleys; and so, to appearance, finished the matter off. Hanged men do
cease for ever from this Earth; but out of chains and the Galleys there may
be resuscitation in triumph. Resuscitation for the chained Hero; and even
for the chained Scoundrel, or Semi-scoundrel! Scottish
John Knox?,
such
World-Hero, as we know, sat once nevertheless pulling grim-taciturn at the
oar of French Galley, 'in the Water of Lore;' and even flung their
Virgin-Mary over, instead of kissing her, —
as 'a pented bredd,' or timber Virgin,
who could naturally swim. (Knox's History of the
Reformation, b. i.) So,
ye of Château-Vieux, tug patiently, not without hope!
|
Carlyle sees the punishment of the Swiss regiment as minor: 23 hung and
60 sent off to galley slavery.
|
|
But indeed at Nanci generally, Aristocracy rides triumphant, rough.
Bouillé is gone again, the second day; an Aristocrat Municipality, with
free course, is as cruel as it had before been cowardly. The Daughter
Society, as the mother of the whole mischief, lies ignominiously
suppressed; the Prisons can hold no more; bereaved down-beaten Patriotism
murmurs, not loud but deep. Here and in the neighbouring Towns, 'flattened
balls' picked from the streets of Nanci are worn at buttonholes: balls
flattened in carrying death to Patriotism; men wear them there, in
perpetual memento of revenge. Mutineer Deserters roam the woods; have to
demand charity at the musket's end. All is dissolution, mutual rancour,
gloom and despair: — till National-Assembly Commissioners arrive, with a
steady gentle flame of Constitutionalism in their hearts; who gently lift
up the down-trodden, gently pull down the too uplifted; reinstate the
Daughter Society, recall the Mutineer Deserter; gradually levelling, strive
in all wise ways to smooth and soothe. With such gradual mild levelling on
the one side; as with solemn funeral-service, Cassolettes, Courts-Martial,
National thanks, — all that Officiality can do is done. The buttonhole will
drop its flat ball; the black ashes, so far as may be, get green again.
|
The short term effect of the mutiny is a royalist ascendency in Lorraine.
In the long term, it seems to have led to closer integration of Lorraine
with the rest of France.
|
|
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This is the 'Affair of Nanci;' by some called the 'Massacre of Nanci;'—
properly speaking, the unsightly wrong-side of that thrice glorious
Feast
of Pikes, the right-side of which formed a spectacle for the very gods.
Right-side and wrong lie always so near: the one was in July, in August
the other! Theatres, the theatres over in London, are bright with their
pasteboard simulacrum of that 'Federation of the French People,' brought
out as Drama: this of Nanci, we may say, though not played in any
pasteboard Theatre, did for many months enact itself, and even walk
spectrally — in all French heads. For the news of it fly pealing through
all France; awakening, in town and village, in clubroom, messroom, to the
utmost borders, some mimic reflex or imaginative repetition of the
business; always with the angry questionable assertion: It was right; It
was wrong. Whereby come controversies, duels, embitterment, vain jargon;
the hastening forward, the augmenting and intensifying of whatever new
explosions lie in store for us.
|
By the same token, the long term effect on France was to promote the
divisions that existed at Nanci.
|
|
Meanwhile, at this cost or at that, the mutiny, as we say, is stilled. The
French Army has neither burst up in universal simultaneous delirium; nor
been at once disbanded, put an end to, and made new again. It must die in
the chronic manner, through years, by inches; with partial revolts, as of
Brest Sailors or the like[109],
which dare not spread; with men unhappy,
insubordinate; officers unhappier, in Royalist moustachioes, taking horse,
singly or in bodies, across the Rhine: (See Dampmartin,
i. 249, etc. etc.)
sick dissatisfaction, sick disgust on both sides; the Army moribund, fit
for no duty: — till it do, in that unexpected manner, Phoenix-like, with
long throes, get both dead and newborn; then start forth strong, nay
stronger and even strongest.
|
The army is rendered ineffective, the ranks dispirited, the officers in
fear or in flight.
|
|
Thus much was the brave Bouillé hitherto fated to do. Wherewith let him
again fade into dimness; and at Metz or the rural Cantonments, assiduously
drilling, mysteriously diplomatising, in scheme within scheme, hover as
formerly a faint shadow, the hope of Royalty.
|
We will see Bouillé again in the Spring of 1792.
|
|
How true that there is nothing dead in this Universe; that what we call
dead is only changed, its forces working in inverse order! 'The leaf that
lies rotting in moist winds,' says one, 'has still force; else how could it
rot?' Our whole Universe is but an infinite Complex of Forces;
thousandfold, from Gravitation up to Thought and Will; man's Freedom
environed with Necessity of Nature: in all which nothing at any moment
slumbers, but all is for ever awake and busy. The thing that lies isolated
inactive thou shalt nowhere discover; seek every where from the granite
mountain, slow-mouldering since Creation, to the passing cloud-vapour, to
the living man; to the action, to the spoken word of man. The word that is
spoken, as we know, flies-irrevocable: not less, but more, the action that
is done. 'The gods themselves,' sings Pindar, 'cannot annihilate the
action that is done.' No: this, once done, is done always; cast forth
into endless Time; and, long conspicuous or soon hidden, must verily work
and grow for ever there, an indestructible new element in the Infinite of
Things. Or, indeed, what is this Infinite of Things itself, which men name
Universe, but an action, a sum-total of Actions and Activities? The living
ready-made sum-total of these three, — which Calculation cannot add, cannot
bring on its tablets; yet the sum, we say, is written visible: All that
has been done, All that is doing, All that will be done! Understand it
well, the Thing thou beholdest, that Thing is an Action, the product and
expression of exerted Force: the All of Things is an infinite conjugation
of the verb To do. Shoreless Fountain-Ocean of Force, of power to
do;
wherein Force rolls and circles, billowing, many-streamed, harmonious; wide
as Immensity, deep as Eternity; beautiful and terrible, not to be
comprehended: this is what man names Existence and Universe; this
thousand-tinted Flame-image, at once veil and revelation, reflex such as
he, in his poor brain and heart, can paint, of One Unnameable dwelling in
inaccessible light! From beyond the Star-galaxies, from before the
Beginning of Days, it billows and rolls, — round thee,
nay thyself art of
it, in this point of Space where thou now standest, in this moment which
thy clock measures.
|
Carlyle philosophizes on the connectedness of all things, and entropy.
|
|
Or apart from all Transcendentalism, is it not a plain truth of sense,
which the duller mind can even consider as a truism, that human things
wholly are in continual movement, and action and reaction; working
continually forward, phasis after phasis, by unalterable laws, towards
prescribed issues? How often must we say, and yet not rightly lay to
heart: The seed that is sown, it will spring! Given the summer's
blossoming, then there is also given the autumnal withering: so is it
ordered not with seedfields only, but with transactions, arrangements,
philosophies, societies, French Revolutions, whatsoever man works with in
this lower world. The Beginning holds in it the End, and all that leads
thereto; as the acorn does the oak and its fortunes. Solemn enough, did we
think of it, — which unhappily and also happily we do not very much! Thou
there canst begin; the Beginning is for thee, and there: but where, and of
what sort, and for whom will the End be? All grows, and seeks and endures
its destinies: consider likewise how much grows, as the trees do, whether
we think of it or not. So that when your
Epimenides?,
your somnolent Peter
Klaus?,
since named Rip van Winkle, awakens again, he finds it a changed
world. In that seven-years' sleep of his, so much has changed! All that
is without us will change while we think not of it; much even that is
within us. The truth that was yesterday a restless Problem, has to-day
grown a Belief burning to be uttered: on the morrow, contradiction has
exasperated it into mad Fanaticism; obstruction has dulled it into sick
Inertness; it is sinking towards silence, of satisfaction or of
resignation. To-day is not Yesterday, for man or for thing. Yesterday
there was the oath of Love; today has come the curse of Hate. Not
willingly: ah, no; but it could not help coming. The golden radiance of
youth, would it willingly have tarnished itself into the dimness of old
age? — Fearful: how we stand enveloped, deep-sunk, in that Mystery of TIME;
and are Sons of Time; fashioned and woven out of Time; and on us, and on
all that we have, or see, or do, is written: Rest not, Continue not,
Forward to thy doom!
|
Change is constant.
|
|
|
|
But in seasons of Revolution, which indeed distinguish themselves from
common seasons by their velocity mainly, your miraculous Seven-sleeper
might, with miracle enough, wake sooner: not by the century, or seven
years, need he sleep; often not by the seven months. Fancy, for example,
some new Peter Klaus, sated with the jubilee of that Federation day, had
lain down, say directly after the Blessing of Talleyrand; and, reckoning it
all safe now, had fallen composedly asleep under the timber-work of the
Fatherland's Altar; to sleep there, not twenty-one years, but as it were
year and day. The cannonading of Nanci, so far off, does not disturb him;
nor does the black mortcloth, close at hand, nor the requiems chanted, and
minute-guns?,
incense-pans and concourse right over his head: none of
these; but Peter sleeps through them all. Through one circling year, as we
say; from July 14th of 1790, till July the 17th of 1791: but on that
latter day, no Klaus, nor most leaden Epimenides, only the Dead could
continue sleeping; and so our miraculous Peter Klaus awakens. With what
eyes, O Peter! Earth and sky have still their joyous July look, and the
Champ-de-Mars is multitudinous with men: but the jubilee-huzzahing has
become Bedlam-shrieking, of terror and revenge; not blessing of Talleyrand,
or any blessing, but cursing, imprecation and shrill wail; our cannon-salvoes
are turned to sharp shot; for swinging of incense-pans and Eighty-three
Departmental Banners, we have waving of the one sanguinous
Drapeau-Rouge [red flag]. — Thou foolish Klaus!
The one lay in the other, the one was the
other minus Time; even as Hannibal's rock-rending vinegar lay in the sweet
new wine[104].
That sweet Federation was of last year; this sour Divulsion is
the self-same substance, only older by the appointed days.
|
Carlyle jumps forward a year, to the time of the second Federation.
|
|
No miraculous Klaus or Epimenides sleeps in these times: and yet, may not
many a man, if of due opacity and levity, act the same miracle in a natural
way; we mean, with his eyes open? Eyes has he, but he sees not, except
what is under his nose. With a sparkling briskness of glance, as if he not
only saw but saw through, such a one goes whisking, assiduous, in his
circle of officialities; not dreaming but that it is the whole world: as,
indeed, where your vision terminates, does not inanity begin there,
and the
world's end clearly declares itself — to you? Whereby our brisk sparkling
assiduous official person (call him, for instance, Lafayette), suddenly
startled, after year and day, by huge grape-shot tumult, stares not less
astonished at it than Peter Klaus would have done. Such natural-miracle
Lafayette can perform; and indeed not he only but most other officials,
non-officials, and generally the whole French People can perform it; and do
bounce up, ever and anon, like amazed Seven-sleepers awakening; awakening
amazed at the noise they themselves make.
So strangely is Freedom, as we
say, environed in Necessity; such a singular Somnambulism, of Conscious and
Unconscious, of Voluntary and Involuntary, is this life of man. If any
where in the world there was astonishment that the Federation Oath went
into grape-shot, surely of all persons the French, first swearers and then
shooters, felt astonished the most.
|
It is as if the French have sleep-walked through the year and woke to find
the world changed.
|
|
Alas, offences must come. The sublime Feast of Pikes, with its effulgence
of brotherly love, unknown since the Age of Gold, has changed nothing.
That prurient heat in Twenty-five millions of hearts is not cooled thereby;
but is still hot, nay hotter. Lift off the pressure of command from so
many millions; all pressure or binding rule, except such melodramatic
Federation Oath as they have bound themselves with!
For 'Thou shalt' was
from of old the condition of man's being, and his weal and blessedness was
in obeying that. Wo for him when, were it on hest of the clearest
necessity, rebellion, disloyal isolation, and mere 'I will', becomes his
rule! But the Gospel of Jean-Jacques has come, and the first Sacrament of
it has been celebrated: all things, as we say, are got into hot and hotter
prurience; and must go on pruriently fermenting, in continual change noted
or unnoted.
|
None of the underlying problems of France have changed; and they are
exacerbated by the license of a people freed from paternal rule.
|
|
'Worn out with disgusts,' Captain after Captain, in Royalist moustachioes,
mounts his warhorse, or his Rozinante war-garron [gelding],
and rides minatory across
the Rhine; till all have ridden. Neither does civic Emigration cease:
Seigneur after Seigneur must, in like manner, ride or roll; impelled to it,
and even compelled. For the very Peasants despise him in that he dare not
join his order and fight. (Dampmartin, passim.)
Can he bear to have a
Distaff, a Quenouille [French distaff]
sent to him; say in copper-plate shadow, by post; or
fixed up in wooden reality over his gate-lintel: as if he were no Hercules
but an Omphale?[110]
Such scutcheon they forward to him diligently from behind
the Rhine; till he too bestir himself and march, and in sour humour,
another Lord of Land is gone, not taking the Land with him. Nay, what of
Captains and emigrating Seigneurs? There is not an angry word on any of
those Twenty-five million French tongues, and indeed not an angry thought
in their hearts, but is some fraction of the great Battle. Add many
successions of angry words together, you have the manual brawl; add brawls
together, with the festering sorrows they leave, and they rise to riots and
revolts. One reverend thing after another ceases to meet reverence: in
visible material combustion, Château after Château mounts up;
in spiritual
invisible combustion, one authority after another. With noise and glare,
or noisily and unnoted, a whole Old System of things is vanishing
piecemeal: on the morrow thou shalt look and it is not.
|
Carlyle sees part of the problem as the disappearance of natural leaders
(to emigration) and mutual goodwill based on the old social norms.
|
|
Sleep who will, cradled in hope and short vision, like Lafayette, 'who
always in the danger done sees the last danger that will threaten him,' —
Time is not sleeping, nor Time's seedfield.
|
Evidence of trouble is there for those who will see.
|
|
That sacred Herald's-College of a new Dynasty; we mean the Sixty and odd
Billstickers with their leaden badges, are not sleeping. Daily they, with
pastepot and cross-staff, new clothe the walls of Paris in colours of the
rainbow: authoritative heraldic, as we say, or indeed almost magical
thaumaturgic; for no Placard-Journal that they paste but will convince some
soul or souls of man. The Hawkers bawl; and the Balladsingers: great
Journalism blows and blusters, through all its throats, forth from Paris
towards all corners of France, like an Aeolus'
Cave[111];
keeping alive all
manner of fires.
|
Indeed, the signs are plain to see in wall-placards, to hear in street
songs and read in the newspapers.
|
|
Throats or Journals there are, as men count, (Mercier,
iii. 163.) to the
number of some hundred and thirty-three. Of various calibre; from your
Cheniers?,
Gorsases?,
Camilles?,
down to your Marat, down now to your
incipient
Hébert?
of the Père Duchesne;
these blow, with fierce weight of
argument or quick light banter, for the Rights of man:
Durosoys?,
Royous?,
Peltiers?,
Sulleaus?,
equally with mixed tactics, inclusive, singular to say,
of much profane Parody, (See Hist. Parl. vii. 51.)
are blowing for Altar and Throne.
As for Marat?
the People's-Friend, his voice is as that of the
bullfrog, or bittern by the solitary pools; he, unseen of men, croaks harsh
thunder, and that alone continually, — of indignation, suspicion, incurable
sorrow. The People are sinking towards ruin, near starvation itself: 'My
dear friends,' cries he, 'your indigence is not the fruit of vices nor of
idleness, you have a right to life, as good as Louis XVI., or the happiest
of the century. What man can say he has a right to dine, when you have no
bread?' (Ami du Peuple, No. 306. See other Excerpts in Hist. Parl. viii.
139-149, 428-433; ix. 85-93, etc.)
The People sinking on the one hand: on
the other hand, nothing but wretched
Sieur Motiers?,
treasonous Riquetti
Mirabeaus?;
traitors, or else shadows, and simulacra of Quacks, to be seen
in high places, look where you will! Men that go mincing, grimacing, with
plausible speech and brushed raiment; hollow within: Quacks Political;
Quacks scientific, Academical; all with a fellow-feeling for each other,
and kind of Quack public-spirit! Not great
Lavoisier?
himself, or any of
the Forty[112]
can escape this rough tongue; which wants not fanatic sincerity,
nor, strangest of all, a certain rough caustic sense. And then the 'three
thousand gaming-houses' that are in Paris; cesspools for the scoundrelism
of the world; sinks of iniquity and debauchery, — whereas without good
morals Liberty is impossible! There, in these Dens of Satan, which one
knows, and perseveringly denounces, do Sieur Motier's
mouchards?
consort and
colleague; battening vampyre-like on a People next-door to starvation. 'O
Peuple!' cries he oftimes, with heart-rending accent. Treason, delusion,
vampyrism, scoundrelism, from Dan to Beersheba! The soul of Marat is sick
with the sight: but what remedy? To erect 'Eight Hundred gibbets,' in
convenient rows, and proceed to hoisting; 'Riquetti on the first of them!'
Such is the brief recipe of Marat, Friend of the People.
|
The newspapers, at least 133 in number,
still vary from the staunchly royalist to the violently radical.
|
So blow and bluster the Hundred and thirty-three: nor, as would seem, are
these sufficient; for there are benighted nooks in France, to which
Newspapers do not reach; and every where is 'such an appetite for news as
was never seen in any country.' Let an expeditious Dampmartin, on
furlough, set out to return home from Paris, (Dampmartin,
i. 184.) he
cannot get along for 'peasants stopping him on the highway; overwhelming
him with questions:' the Maître de Poste
will not send out the horses till
you have well nigh quarrelled with him, but asks always, What news? At
Autun, 'in spite of the rigorous frost' for it is now January, 1791,
nothing will serve but you must gather your wayworn limbs, and thoughts,
and 'speak to the multitudes from a window opening into the market-place.'
It is the shortest method: This,
good Christian people, is verily what an
August Assembly seemed to me to be doing; this and no other is the news;
'Now my weary lips I close;
Leave me, leave me to repose.'[113]
The good Dampmartin! — But, on the whole, are not Nations astonishingly true
to their National character; which indeed runs in the blood? Nineteen
hundred years ago, Julius Caesar, with his quick sure eye, took note how
the Gauls waylaid men. 'It is a habit of theirs,' says he, 'to stop
travellers, were it even by constraint, and inquire whatsoever each of them
may have heard or known about any sort of matter: in their towns, the
common people beset the passing trader; demanding to hear from what regions
he came, what things he got acquainted with there. Excited by which
rumours and hearsays they will decide about the weightiest matters; and
necessarily repent next moment that they did it, on such guidance of
uncertain reports, and many a traveller answering with mere fictions to
please them, and get off.' (De Bello Gallico, iv. 5.)
Nineteen hundred
years; and good Dampmartin, wayworn, in winter frost, probably with scant
light of stars and fish-oil, still perorates from the Inn-window! This
People is no longer called Gaulish; and it has wholly become
braccatus [stockinged], has
got breeches, and suffered change enough: certain fierce German Franken
came storming over; and, so to speak, vaulted on the back of it; and always
after, in their grim tenacious way, have ridden it bridled; for German is,
by his very name, Guerre-man, or man that wars and gars
[swears].
And so the
People, as we say, is now called French or Frankish: nevertheless, does
not the old Gaulish and Gaelic Celthood, with its vehemence, effervescent
promptitude, and what good and ill it had, still vindicate itself little
adulterated? —
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The people of France have a genetic hunger for news.
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For the rest, that in such prurient confusion, Clubbism thrives and
spreads, need not be said. Already the Mother of Patriotism, sitting in
the Jacobins, shines supreme over all; and has paled the poor lunar light
of that Monarchic Club near to final extinction. She, we say, shines
supreme, girt with sun-light, not yet with infernal lightning; reverenced,
not without fear, by Municipal Authorities; counting her
Barnaves?,
Lameths?,
Pétions?,
of a National Assembly; most gladly of all, her Robespierre.
Cordeliers, again, your
Hébert?,
Vincent,
Bibliopolist Momoro?,
groan audibly
that a tyrannous Mayor?
and Sieur Motier?
harrow them with the sharp tribula [threshers]
of Law, intent apparently to suppress them by tribulation. How the Jacobin
Mother-Society, as hinted formerly, sheds forth Cordeliers on this hand,
and then Feuillans on that; the Cordeliers on this hand, and then Feuillans
on that; the Cordeliers 'an elixir or double-distillation of Jacobin
Patriotism;' the other a wide-spread weak dilution thereof; how she will
re-absorb the former into her Mother-bosom, and stormfully dissipate the
latter into Nonentity: how she breeds and brings forth Three Hundred
Daughter-Societies; her rearing of them, her correspondence, her
endeavourings and continual travail: how, under an old figure, Jacobinism
shoots forth organic filaments to the utmost corners of confused dissolved
France; organising it anew: — this properly is the grand fact of the Time.
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The Jacobins is now undisputedly the strongest of the political clubs.
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To passionate Constitutionalism, still more to Royalism, which see all
their own Clubs fail and die, Clubbism will naturally grow to seem the root
of all evil. Nevertheless Clubbism is not death, but rather new
organisation, and life out of death: destructive, indeed, of the remnants
of the Old; but to the New important, indispensable. That man can co-operate
and hold communion with man, herein lies his miraculous strength.
In hut or hamlet, Patriotism mourns not now like voice in the desert: it
can walk to the nearest Town; and there, in the Daughter-Society, make its
ejaculation into an articulate oration, into an action, guided forward by
the Mother of Patriotism herself. All Clubs of Constitutionalists, and
such like, fail, one after another, as shallow fountains: Jacobinism alone
has gone down to the deep subterranean lake of waters; and may, unless
filled in, flow there, copious, continual, like an Artesian well.
Till the
Great Deep have drained itself up: and all be flooded and submerged, and
Noah's Deluge out-deluged!
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The Jacobin Clubs succeed because they fulfill the most and deepest needs of
their members. For better or worse, it is the center around which the country
is reorganizing.
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On the other hand,
Claude Fauchet?,
preparing mankind for a Golden Age now
apparently just at hand, has opened his Cercle Social, with clerks,
corresponding boards, and so forth; in the precincts of the Palais Royal.
It is Te-Deum Fauchet;
the same who preached on Franklin's Death, in that
huge Medicean rotunda of the Halle aux
bleds?.
He here, this winter, by
Printing-press and melodious Colloquy, spreads bruit [report] of himself to the
utmost City-barriers. 'Ten thousand persons' of respectability attend
there; and listen to this 'Procureur-Général de la
Vérité, Attorney-General
of Truth,' so has he dubbed himself; to his sage
Condorcet?,
or other
eloquent coadjutor. Eloquent Attorney-General! He blows out from him,
better or worse, what crude or ripe thing he holds: not without result to
himself; for it leads to a Bishoprick [of Calvados],
though only a Constitutional one.
Fauchet approves himself a glib-tongued, strong-lunged, whole-hearted human
individual: much flowing matter there is, and really of the better sort,
about Right, Nature, Benevolence, Progress; which flowing matter, whether
'it is pantheistic,' or is pot-theistic, only the greener mind, in these
days, need read. Busy Brissot was long ago of purpose to establish
precisely some such regenerative Social Circle: nay he had tried it, in
'Newman-street Oxford-street,' of the Fog Babylon [London];
and failed, — as some
say, surreptitiously pocketing the cash. Fauchet, not Brissot, was fated
to be the happy man; whereat, however, generous Brissot will with sincere
heart sing a timber-toned Nunc Domine. (See Brissot,
Patriote-Français
Newspaper; Fauchet, Bouche-de-Fer, etc. (excerpted in Hist. Parl. viii.,
ix., et seqq.).) But 'ten thousand persons of respectability:' what a
bulk have many things in proportion to their magnitude! This Cercle
Social, for which Brissot chants in sincere timber-tones such
Nunc Domine,
what is it? Unfortunately wind and shadow. The main reality one finds in
it now, is perhaps this: that an 'Attorney-General of Truth' did once take
shape of a body, as Son of Adam, on our Earth, though but for months or
moments; and ten thousand persons of respectability attended, ere yet Chaos
and Nox had reabsorbed him.
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An attempted rival liberal club, the Cercle Social, gains brief and
not particularly fervent support in Paris.
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Hundred and thirty-three Paris Journals; regenerative Social Circle;
oratory, in Mother and Daughter Societies, from the balconies of Inns, by
chimney-nook, at dinner-table, — polemical, ending many times in duel! Add
ever, like a constant growling accompaniment of bass Discord: scarcity of
work, scarcity of food. The winter is hard and cold; ragged Bakers'-queues,
like a black tattered flag-of-distress, wave out ever and anon. It
is the third of our Hunger-years this new year of a glorious Revolution.
The rich man when invited to dinner, in such distress-seasons, feels bound
in politeness to carry his own bread in his pocket: how the poor dine?
And your glorious Revolution has done it, cries one. And our glorious
Revolution is subtly, by black traitors worthy of the Lamp-iron,
perverted to do it, cries another! Who will paint the huge whirlpool
wherein France, all shivered into wild incoherence, whirls? The jarring
that went on under every French roof, in every French heart; the diseased
things that were spoken, done, the sum-total whereof is the French
Revolution, tongue of man cannot tell. Nor the laws of action that work
unseen in the depths of that huge blind Incoherence! With amazement, not
with measurement, men look on the Immeasurable; not knowing its laws;
seeing, with all different degrees of knowledge, what new phases, and
results of event, its laws bring forth. France is as a monstrous Galvanic
Mass, wherein all sorts of far stranger than chemical galvanic or electric
forces and substances are at work; electrifying one another, positive and
negative; filling with electricity your Leyden-jars, — Twenty-five millions
in number! As the jars get full, there will, from time to time, be, on
slight hint, an explosion.
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Constant political discussion; persistent famine; wild theories and rumours;
all mix to create a volatile society subject to violence.
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On such wonderful basis, however, has Law, Royalty, Authority, and whatever
yet exists of visible Order, to maintain itself, while it can. Here, as in
that Commixture of the Four Elements did the
Anarch Old[114],
has an august
Assembly spread its pavilion; curtained by the dark infinite of discords;
founded on the wavering bottomless of the Abyss; and keeps continual
hubbub. Time is around it, and Eternity, and the Inane; and it does what
it can, what is given it to do.
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It is upon this chaos that the foundation of the Constituent Assembly is
built.
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Glancing reluctantly in, once more, we discern little that is edifying: a
Constitutional Theory of Defective Verbs struggling forward, with
perseverance, amid endless interruptions: Mirabeau, from his tribune, with
the weight of his name and genius, awing down much Jacobin violence; which
in return vents itself the louder over in its Jacobins Hall, and even reads
him sharp lectures there. (Camille's Journal (in Hist. Parl.
ix. 366-85).)
This man's path is mysterious, questionable; difficult, and he walks
without companion in it. Pure Patriotism does not now count him among her
chosen; pure Royalism abhors him: yet his weight with the world is
overwhelming. Let him travel on, companionless, unwavering, whither he is
bound, — while it is yet day with him, and the night has not come.
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Mirabeau, though thoroughly distrusted by both the Government and the
Jacobins, moves on with his program for a constitutional democracy, and
is the most popular figure in France.
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But the chosen band of pure Patriot brothers is small; counting only some
Thirty, seated now on the extreme tip of the Left, separate from the world.
A virtuous
Pétion?;
an incorruptible
Robespierre?,
most consistent,
incorruptible of thin acrid men; Triumvirs
Barnave?,
Duport?,
Lameth?,
great
in speech, thought, action, each according to his kind; a lean old Goupil
de Prefeln?:
on these and what will follow them has pure Patriotism to
depend.
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The radical Jacobines in the Assembly are few, and only Robespierre and
Pétion without taint of self-interest. Their turn will come later.
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There too, conspicuous among the Thirty, if seldom audible, Philippe
d'Orleans?
may be seen sitting: in dim fuliginous bewilderment; having, one
might say, arrived at Chaos! Gleams there are, at once of a Lieutenancy
and Regency; debates in the Assembly itself, of succession to the Throne
'in case the present Branch should fail;' and Philippe, they say, walked
anxiously, in silence, through the corridors, till such high argument were
done: but it came all to nothing; Mirabeau, glaring into the man, and
through him, had to ejaculate in strong untranslatable language: Ce
j—f— ne vaut pas la peine qu'on se donne pour lui.
It came all to nothing; and
in the meanwhile Philippe's money, they say, is gone! Could he refuse a
little cash to the gifted Patriot, in want only of that; he himself in want
of all but that? Not a pamphlet can be printed without cash; or indeed
written, without food purchasable by cash. Without cash your hopefullest
Projector cannot stir from the spot: individual patriotic or other
Projects require cash: how much more do wide-spread Intrigues, which live
and exist by cash; lying widespread, with dragon-appetite for cash; fit to
swallow Princedoms! And so Prince Philippe, amid his Sillerys, Lacloses,
and confused Sons of Night, has rolled along: the centre of the strangest
cloudy coil; out of which has visibly come, as we often say, an Epic
Preternatural Machinery of SUSPICION; and within
which there has dwelt and
worked, — what specialties of treason, stratagem, aimed or aimless endeavour
towards mischief, no party living (if it be not the Presiding Genius of it,
Prince of the Power of the Air) has now any chance to know. Camille's
conjecture is the likeliest: that poor Philippe did mount up, a little
way, in treasonable speculation, as he mounted formerly in one of the
earliest Balloons; but, frightened at the new position he was getting into,
had soon turned the cock again, and come down. More fool than he rose! To
create Preternatural Suspicion, this was his function in the Revolutionary
Epos. But now if he have lost his cornucopia of ready-money, what else had
he to lose? In thick darkness, inward and outward, he must welter and
flounder on, in that piteous death-element, the hapless man. Once, or even
twice, we shall still behold him emerged; struggling out of the thick
death-element: in vain. For one moment, it is the last moment, he starts
aloft, or is flung aloft, even into clearness and a kind of memorability, —
to sink then for evermore!
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Orleans has become a nullity. His no longer has a title or wealth.
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The Côté Droit persists no less;
nay with more animation than ever, though
hope has now well nigh fled. Tough Abbé
Maury?,
when the obscure country
Royalist grasps his hand with transport of thanks, answers, rolling his
indomitable brazen head: "Hélas, Monsieur,
all that I do here is as good
as simply nothing."
Gallant Faussigny,
visible this one time in History,
advances frantic, into the middle of the Hall, exclaiming: "There is but
one way of dealing with it, and that is to fall sword in hand on those
gentry there, sabre à la main sur ces gaillards là,"
(Moniteur, Séance du 21 Août, 1790.)
franticly indicating our chosen Thirty on the extreme tip
of the Left! Whereupon is clangour and clamour, debate, repentance,—
evaporation. Things ripen towards downright incompatibility, and what is
called 'scission:' that fierce theoretic onslaught of Faussigny's was in
August, 1790; next August will not have come, till a famed Two Hundred and
Ninety-two, the chosen of Royalism, make solemn final 'scission' from an
Assembly given up to faction; and depart, shaking the dust off their feet.
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The monarchists have all but given up hope.
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Connected with this matter of sword in hand, there is yet another thing to
be noted. Of duels we have sometimes spoken: how, in all parts of France,
innumerable duels were fought; and argumentative men and messmates,
flinging down the wine-cup and weapons of reason and repartée,
met in the
measured field; to part bleeding; or perhaps not to part, but to fall
mutually skewered through with iron, their wrath and life alike ending, —
and die as fools die. Long has this lasted, and still lasts. But now it
would seem as if in an august Assembly itself, traitorous Royalism, in its
despair, had taken to a new course: that of cutting off Patriotism by
systematic duel! Bully-swordsmen, 'Spadassins' of that party, go
swaggering; or indeed they can be had for a trifle of money. 'Twelve
Spadassins' were seen, by the yellow eye of Journalism,
'arriving recently
out of Switzerland;' also 'a considerable number of Assassins, nombre
considérable d'assassins,
exercising in fencing-schools and at pistol-targets.'
Any Patriot Deputy of mark can be called out; let him escape one
time, or ten times, a time there necessarily is when he must fall, and
France mourn. How many cartels has Mirabeau had; especially while he was
the People's champion! Cartels by the hundred: which he, since the
Constitution must be made first, and his time is precious, answers now
always with a kind of stereotype formula: "Monsieur, you are put upon my
List; but I warn you that it is long, and I grant no preferences."
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Deputies are often challanged to duels which to refuse would bring dishonor
and to lose worse.
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Then, in Autumn, had we not the Duel of Cazalès and Barnave;
the two chief
masters of tongue-shot meeting now to exchange pistol-shot?
For Cazalès,?
chief of the Royalists, whom we call 'Blacks or Noirs,'
said, in a moment
of passion, "the Patriots were sheer Brigands," nay in so speaking, he
darted or seemed to dart, a fire-glance specially at Barnave; who thereupon
could not but reply by fire-glances, — by adjournment to the Bois-de-Boulogne. Barnave's second shot took effect: on Cazalès's hat. The
'front nook' of a triangular Felt, such as mortals then wore, deadened the
ball; and saved that fine brow from more than temporary injury. But how
easily might the lot have fallen the other way, and Barnave's hat not been
so good! Patriotism raises its loud denunciation of Duelling in general;
petitions an august Assembly to stop such Feudal barbarism by law.
Barbarism and solecism: for will it convince or convict any man to blow
half an ounce of lead through the head of him? Surely not. — Barnave was
received at the Jacobins with embraces, yet with rebukes.
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One well-known duel, with pistols, was between the royalist Cazalès
and the radical Barnave. Both survived.
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Mindful of which, and also that his repetition in America was that of
headlong foolhardiness rather, and want of brain not of heart, Charles
Lameth does, on the eleventh day of November, with little emotion, decline
attending some hot young Gentleman from Artois, come expressly to challenge
him: nay indeed he first coldly engages to attend; then coldly permits two
Friends to attend instead of him, and shame the young Gentleman out of it,
which they successfully do. A cold procedure; satisfactory to the two
Friends, to Lameth and the hot young Gentleman; whereby, one might have
fancied, the whole matter was cooled down.
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Lameth thought he had enough credibility to refuse a duel.
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Not so, however: Lameth, proceeding to his senatorial duties, in the
decline of the day, is met in those Assembly corridors by nothing but
Royalist brocards;
sniffs, huffs, and open insults. Human patience has its
limits: "Monsieur," said Lameth, breaking silence to one Lautrec, a man
with hunchback, or natural deformity, but sharp of tongue, and a Black of
the deepest tint, "Monsieur, if you were a man to be fought with!" — "I am
one," cries the young Duke
de Castries?.
Fast as fire-flash Lameth replies,
"Tout à l'heure, On the instant, then!"
And so, as the shades of dusk
thicken in that Bois-de-Boulogne, we behold two men with lion-look, with
alert attitude, side foremost, right foot advanced; flourishing and
thrusting, stoccado and passado, in tierce and quart; intent to skewer one
another. See, with most skewering purpose, headlong Lameth, with his whole
weight, makes a furious lunge; but deft Castries whisks aside: Lameth
skewers only the air, — and slits deep and far, on Castries' sword's-point,
his own extended left arm! Whereupon with bleeding, pallor, surgeon's-lint,
and formalities, the Duel is considered satisfactorily done.
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He was wrong and ended up fighting — and losing — a duel the next day.
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But will there be no end, then? Beloved Lameth lies deep-slit, not out of
danger. Black traitorous Aristocrats kill the People's defenders, cut up
not with arguments, but with rapier-slits.
And the Twelve Spadassins out
of Switzerland, and the considerable number of Assassins exercising at the
pistol-target? So meditates and ejaculates hurt Patriotism,
with ever-deepening ever-widening fervour,
for the space of six and thirty hours.
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This particular duel raises a furor.
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The thirty-six hours past, on Saturday the 13th, one beholds a new
spectacle: The Rue de Varennes, and neighbouring Boulevard des Invalides,
covered with a mixed flowing multitude: the Castries Hôtel gone
distracted, devil-ridden, belching from every window, 'beds with clothes
and curtains,' plate of silver and gold with filigree, mirrors, pictures,
images, commodes, chiffoniers, and endless crockery and jingle: amid
steady popular cheers, absolutely without theft; for there goes a cry, "He
shall be hanged that steals a nail!" It is a Plebiscitum, or informal
iconoclastic Decree of the Common People, in the course of being executed! —
The Municipality sit tremulous; deliberating whether they will hang out
the Drapeau Rouge and Martial Law:
National Assembly, part in loud wail,
part in hardly suppressed applause: Abbé Maury unable to decide whether
the iconoclastic Plebs amount to forty thousand or to two hundred thousand.
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A large crowd of Parisians burns the house of the aristocrat who challanged
and wounded Lambeth.
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Deputations, swift messengers, for it is at a distance over the River, come
and go. Lafayette and National Guards, though without Drapeau Rouge,
get
under way; apparently in no hot haste. Nay, arrived on the scene,
Lafayette salutes with doffed hat, before ordering to fix bayonets. What
avails it? The Plebeian "Court of
Cassation?,"
as Camille might punningly
name it, has done its work; steps forth, with unbuttoned vest, with pockets
turned inside out: sack, and just ravage, not plunder! With inexhaustible
patience, the Hero of two Worlds remonstrates; persuasively, with a kind of
sweet constraint, though also with fixed bayonets, dissipates, hushes down:
on the morrow it is once more all as usual.
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Lafayette scatters the crowd, but not before the damage is done.
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Considering which things, however, Duke Castries may justly 'write to the
President,' justly transport himself across the Marches; to raise a corps,
or do what else is in him. Royalism totally abandons that Bobadilian
method of contest, and the Twelve Spadassins return to Switzerland,
— or
even to Dreamland through the Horn-gate, whichsoever their home is. Nay
Editor
Prudhomme?
is authorised to publish a curious thing: 'We are
authorised to publish,' says he, dull-blustering Publisher, that M. Boyer,
champion of good Patriots, is at the head of Fifty Spadassinicides or
Bully-killers. His address is:
Passage du Bois-de-Boulogne, Faubourg St.
Denis.' (Révolutions de Paris
(in Hist. Parl. viii. 440).) One of the
strangest Institutes, this of Champion Boyer and the Bully-killers! Whose
services, however, are not wanted; Royalism having abandoned the rapier-method
as plainly impracticable.
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From then forward, duels again became mainly affairs of honor, not instruments
of politics.
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The truth is Royalism sees itself verging towards sad extremities; nearer
and nearer daily. From over the Rhine it comes asserted that the King in
his Tuileries is not free: this the poor King may contradict, with the
official mouth, but in his heart feels often to be undeniable. Civil
Constitution of the Clergy[89];
Decree of ejectment against Dissidents from it:
not even to this latter, though almost his conscience rebels, can he say
'Nay'; but, after two months' hesitating, signs this also. It was on
January 21st,' of this 1790, that he signed it; to the sorrow of his poor
heart yet, on another Twenty-first of
January [his execution, 1793]!
Whereby come Dissident
ejected Priests; unconquerable Martyrs according to some, incurable
chicaning Traitors according to others. And so there has arrived what we
once foreshadowed: with Religion, or with the Cant and Echo of Religion,
all France is rent asunder in a new rupture of continuity; complicating,
embittering all the older; — to be cured only, by stern surgery, in La
Vendée?!
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The king has no power. He must sign even the most odious legislation of
the Constituent Assembly.
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Unhappy Royalty, unhappy Majesty, Hereditary (Representative),
Représentant Héréditaire,
or however they can name him; of whom much is expected, to
whom little is given! Blue National Guards encircle that Tuileries; a
Lafayette, thin constitutional Pedant; clear, thin, inflexible, as water,
turned to thin ice; whom no Queen's heart can love. National Assembly, its
pavilion spread where we know, sits near by, keeping continual hubbub.
From without nothing but Nanci Revolts, sack of Castries Hôtels,
riots and
seditions; riots, North and South, at Aix, at Douai, at Befort, Usez,
Perpignan, at Nismes, and that incurable
Avignon[116] of the Pope's: a
continual crackling and sputtering of riots from the whole face of France;
— testifying how electric it grows. Add only the hard winter, the famished
strikes of operatives; that continual running-bass of Scarcity, ground-tone
and basis of all other Discords!
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The situation in France is one of discontent waiting to turn to discord.
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The plan of Royalty, so far as it can be said to have any fixed plan, is
still, as ever, that of flying towards the frontiers. In very truth, the
only plan of the smallest promise for it!
Fly to Bouillé; bristle yourself
round with cannon, served by your 'forty-thousand undebauched Germans:'
summon the National Assembly to follow you, summon what of it is Royalist,
Constitutional, gainable by money; dissolve the rest, by grapeshot if need
be. Let Jacobinism and Revolt, with one wild wail, fly into Infinite
Space; driven by grapeshot. Thunder over France with the cannon's mouth;
commanding, not entreating, that this riot cease. And then to rule
afterwards with utmost possible Constitutionality; doing justice, loving
mercy; being Shepherd of this indigent People, not Shearer merely, and
Shepherd's-similitude! All this, if ye dare. If ye dare not, then in
Heaven's name go to sleep: other handsome alternative seems none.
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The royalists have a hope — plan would be too strong — to
evacuate the King from Paris and reestablish his authority.
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Nay, it were perhaps possible; with a man to do it. For if such
inexpressible whirlpool of Babylonish confusions (which our Era is) cannot
be stilled by man, but only by Time and men, a man may moderate its
paroxysms, may balance and sway, and keep himself unswallowed on the top of
it, — as several men and Kings in these days do. Much is possible for a
man; men will obey a man that kens and cans,
and name him reverently their
Ken-ning or King. Did not Charlemagne rule?
Consider too whether he had
smooth times of it; hanging 'four-thousand Saxons over the
Weser-Bridge,'[117]
at one dread swoop! So likewise, who knows but, in this same distracted
fanatic France, the right man may verily exist? An olive-complexioned
taciturn man; for the present, Lieutenant in the Artillery-service, who
once sat studying Mathematics at Brienne? The same who walked in the
morning to correct proof-sheets at Dôle, and enjoyed a frugal breakfast
with M. Joly? Such a one is gone, whither also famed General Paoli his
friend is gone, in these very days, to see old scenes in native Corsica,
and what Democratic good can be done there.
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A strong king might realize this hope. A terrible one like Charlemagne
certainly would. As it is, the next king, Napoleon, is in Corsica fighting
Italians.
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Royalty never executes the evasion-plan, yet never abandons it; living in
variable hope; undecisive, till fortune shall decide. In utmost secrecy, a
brisk Correspondence goes on with Bouillé; there is also a plot, which
emerges more than once, for carrying the King to Rouen:
(See Hist. Parl. vii. 316; Bertrand-Moleville, etc.)
plot after plot, emerging and
submerging, like ignes fatui in foul weather, which lead no whither.
About 'ten o'clock at night,' the Hereditary Representative, in partie
quarrée, with the Queen, with Brother Monsieur, and Madame,
sits playing 'wisk,' or whist.
Usher Campan?
enters mysteriously, with a message he only
half comprehends: How a certain Compte d'Inisdal waits anxious in the
outer antechamber; National Colonel, Captain of the watch for this night,
is gained over; post-horses ready all the way; party of Noblesse sitting
armed, determined; will His Majesty, before midnight, consent to go?
Profound silence; Campan waiting with upturned ear. "Did your Majesty hear
what Campan said?" asks the Queen. "Yes, I heard," answers Majesty, and
plays on. "'Twas a pretty couplet, that of Campan's," hints Monsieur, who
at times showed a pleasant wit: Majesty, still unresponsive, plays wisk.
"After all, one must say something to Campan," remarks the Queen. "Tell M.
d'Inisdal," said the King, and the Queen puts an emphasis on it, "that the
King cannot consent to be forced away." —
"I see!" said d'Inisdal, whisking
round, peaking himself into flame of irritancy: "we have the risk; we are
to have all the blame if it fail," (Campan, ii. 105.)
— and vanishes, he and
his plot, as will-o'-wisps do. The Queen sat till far in the night,
packing jewels: but it came to nothing; in that peaked frame of irritancy
the Will-o'-wisp had gone out.
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Carlyle tells the story of one attempt to evacuate the King.
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Little hope there is in all this. Alas, with whom to fly? Our loyal
Gardes-du-Corps [bodyguard],
ever since the Insurrection of Women, are disbanded; gone
to their homes; gone, many of them, across the Rhine towards Coblentz and
Exiled Princes: brave Miomandre and brave Tardivet, these faithful Two,
have received, in nocturnal interview with both Majesties, their
viaticum
of gold louis, of heartfelt thanks from a Queen's lips, though unluckily
'his Majesty stood, back to fire, not speaking;' (Campan,
ii. 109-11.) and
do now dine through the Provinces; recounting hairsbreadth escapes,
insurrectionary horrors. Great horrors; to be swallowed yet of greater.
But on the whole what a falling off from the old splendour of Versailles!
Here in this poor Tuileries, a National Brewer-Colonel, sonorous
Santerre?,
parades officially behind her Majesty's chair. Our high dignitaries, all
fled over the Rhine: nothing now to be gained at Court; but hopes, for
which life itself must be risked! Obscure busy men frequent the back
stairs; with hearsays, wind projects, unfruitful fanfaronades. Young
Royalists, at the Théâtre de Vaudeville,
'sing couplets;' if that could do
any thing. Royalists enough, Captains on furlough, burnt-out Seigneurs,
may likewise be met with, 'in the Café de Valois, and at Méot the
Restaurateur's.' There they fan one another into high loyal glow; drink,
in such wine as can be procured, confusion to Sansculottism; shew purchased
dirks, of an improved structure, made to order; and, greatly daring, dine.
(Dampmartin, ii. 129.)
It is in these places, in these months, that the
epithet Sansculotte first gets applied to indigent Patriotism;
in the last
age we had Gilbert Sansculotte, the indigent Poet.
(Mercier, Nouveau
Paris, iii. 204.) Destitute-of-Breeches: a mournful Destitution; which
however, if Twenty millions share it, may become more effective than most
Possessions!
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Few of the loyalists are men with whom a wise king would ally himself.
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Meanwhile, amid this vague dim whirl of fanfaronades, wind-projects,
poniards made to order, there does disclose itself one punctum-saliens
[salient point] of
life and feasibility: the finger of Mirabeau! Mirabeau and the Queen of
France have met; have parted with mutual trust! It is strange; secret as
the Mysteries; but it is indubitable. Mirabeau took horse, one evening;
and rode westward, unattended, — to see Friend Clavière in that country
house of his? Before getting to Clavière's, the much-musing horseman
struck aside to a back gate of the Garden of Saint-Cloud: some Duke
d'Aremberg, or the like, was there to introduce him; the Queen was not far:
on a 'round knoll, rond point, the highest of the Garden of Saint-Cloud,'
he beheld the Queen's face; spake with her, alone, under the void canopy of
Night. What an interview; fateful secret for us, after all searching; like
the colloquies of the gods! (Campan, ii. c. 17.)
She called him 'a
Mirabeau:' elsewhere we read that she 'was charmed with him,' the wild
submitted Titan; as indeed it is among the honourable tokens of this high
ill-fated heart that no mind of any endowment, no Mirabeau, nay no Barnave,
no Dumouriez, ever came face to face with her but, in spite of all
prepossessions, she was forced to recognise it, to draw nigh to it, with
trust. High imperial heart; with the instinctive attraction towards all
that had any height! "You know not the Queen," said Mirabeau once in
confidence; "her force of mind is prodigious; she is a man for courage."
(Dumont, p. 211.) —
And so, under the void Night, on the crown of that
knoll, she has spoken with a Mirabeau: he has kissed loyally the queenly
hand, and said with enthusiasm: "Madame, the Monarchy is saved!" —
Possible? The Foreign Powers, mysteriously sounded, gave favourable
guarded response; (Correspondence Secrète
(in Hist. Parl. viii. 169-73).)
Bouillé is at Metz, and could find forty-thousand sure Germans. With a
Mirabeau for head, and a Bouillé for hand,
something verily is possible, — if Fate intervene not.
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But there is one probably worthy of trust: Mirabeau.
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But figure under what thousandfold wrappages, and cloaks of darkness,
Royalty, meditating these things, must involve itself. There are men with
'Tickets of Entrance;' there are chivalrous consultings, mysterious
plottings. Consider also whether, involve as it like, plotting Royalty can
escape the glance of Patriotism; lynx-eyes, by the ten thousand fixed on
it, which see in the dark! Patriotism knows much: know the dirks made to
order, and can specify the shops; knows Sieur Motier's legions of
mouchards?;
the Tickets of Entrée,
and men in black; and how plan of evasion
succeeds plan, — or may be supposed to succeed it. Then conceive the
couplets chanted at the Théâtre de Vaudeville;
or worse, the whispers,
significant nods of traitors in moustaches. Conceive, on the other hand,
the loud cry of alarm that came through the Hundred-and-Thirty Journals;
the Dionysius'-Ear[118]
of each of the Forty-eight Sections[119],
wakeful night and day.
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Carlyle wonders if even competent plotting by the Royalists could have
succeeded.
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Patriotism is patient of much; not patient of all. The Café
de Procope?
has
sent, visibly along the streets, a Deputation of Patriots, 'to expostulate
with bad Editors,' by trustful word of mouth: singular to see and hear.
The bad Editors promise to amend, but do not. Deputations for change of
Ministry were many; Mayor Bailly joining even with Cordelier Danton in
such: and they have prevailed. With what profit? Of Quacks, willing or
constrained to be Quacks, the race is everlasting: Ministers
Duportail?
and
Dutertre?
will have to manage much as Ministers
Latour-du-Pin?
and
Cicé?
did. So welters the confused world.[120]
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Though there is no progress, there is still change.
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But now, beaten on for ever by such inextricable contradictory influences
and evidences, what is the indigent French Patriot, in these unhappy days,
to believe, and walk by? Uncertainty all; except that he is wretched,
indigent; that a glorious Revolution, the wonder of the Universe, has
hitherto brought neither Bread nor Peace; being marred by traitors,
difficult to discover. Traitors that dwell in the dark, invisible
there;—or seen for moments, in pallid dubious twilight, stealthily vanishing
thither! Preternatural Suspicion once more rules the minds of men.
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The situation is worst for the lowest classes, facing dearth, taxes and
conscription; and the uncertainties of accusatory politics.
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'Nobody here,' writes Carra of the Annales Patriotiques, so early as the
first of February, 'can entertain a doubt of the constant obstinate project
these people have on foot to get the King away; or of the perpetual
succession of manoeuvres they employ for that.' Nobody: the watchful
Mother of Patriotism deputed two Members to her Daughter at Versailles, to
examine how the matter looked there. Well, and there? Patriotic Carra
continues: 'The Report of these two deputies we all heard with our own
ears last Saturday. They went with others of Versailles, to inspect the
King's Stables, also the stables of the whilom Gardes du Corps;
they found
there from seven to eight hundred horses standing always saddled and
bridled, ready for the road at a moment's notice. The same deputies,
moreover, saw with their own two eyes several Royal Carriages, which men
were even then busy loading with large well-stuffed luggage-bags,' leather
cows, as we call them, 'vaches de cuir;
the Royal Arms on the panels almost
entirely effaced.' Momentous enough! Also, 'on the same day the whole
Maréchaussée, or Cavalry Police, did assemble with arms,
horses and
baggage,' — and disperse again. They want the King over the marches, that
so Emperor Leopold and the German Princes, whose troops are ready, may have
a pretext for beginning: 'this,' adds Carra, 'is the word of the riddle:
this is the reason why our fugitive Aristocrats are now making levies of
men on the frontiers; expecting that, one of these mornings, the Executive
Chief Magistrate will be brought over to them, and the civil war commence.'
(Carra's Newspaper, 1st Feb. 1791 (in Hist. Parl. ix. 39).)
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he Jacobins frequently find "evidence" of plots to carry the king out of
France.
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If indeed the Executive Chief Magistrate, bagged, say in one of these
leather cows, were once brought safe over to them!
But the strangest thing
of all is that Patriotism, whether barking at a venture, or guided by some
instinct of preternatural sagacity, is actually barking aright
this time;
at something, not at nothing. Bouillé's Secret Correspondence,
since made
public, testifies as much.
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In fact there was a plot (more than one, actually) to do just that.
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Nay, it is undeniable, visible to all, that Mesdames
the King's Aunts are
taking steps for departure: asking passports of the Ministry, safe-conducts
of the Municipality; which Marat warns all men to beware of. They
will carry gold with them, 'these old Béguines; [dears]'
nay they will carry the
little Dauphin, 'having nursed a changeling, for some time, to leave in his
stead!' Besides, they are as some light substance flung up, to shew how
the wind sits; a kind of proof-kite you fly off to ascertain whether the
grand paper-kite, Evasion of the King, may mount!
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Marat views the attempt of the royal Aunts to leave as a feint in the plan
to carry off the king.
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In these alarming circumstances, Patriotism is not wanting to itself.
Municipality deputes to the King; Sections depute to the Municipality; a
National Assembly will soon stir. Meanwhile, behold, on the 19th of
February 1791, Mesdames, quitting Bellevue and Versailles with all privacy,
are off! Towards Rome, seemingly; or one knows not whither. They are not
without King's passports, countersigned; and what is more to the purpose, a
serviceable Escort. The Patriotic Mayor or Mayorlet of the Village of
Moret tried to detain them; but brisk Louis de Narbonne, of the Escort,
dashed off at hand-gallop; returned soon with thirty dragoons, and
victoriously cut them out. And so the poor ancient women go their way; to
the terror of France and Paris, whose nervous excitability is become
extreme. Who else would hinder poor Loque and Graille,
now grown so old,
and fallen into such unexpected circumstances, when gossip itself turning
only on terrors and horrors is no longer pleasant to the mind, and you
cannot get so much as an orthodox confessor in peace, — from going what way
soever the hope of any solacement might lead them?
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Despite mounting resistance to their departure, the aunts depart for Rome.
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They go, poor ancient dames, — whom the heart were hard that does not pity:
they go; with palpitations, with unmelodious suppressed screechings; all
France, screeching and cackling, in loud unsuppressed terror, behind and on
both hands of them: such mutual suspicion is among men. At Arnay le Duc,
above halfway to the frontiers, a Patriotic Municipality and Populace again
takes courage to stop them: Louis Narbonne must now back to Paris, must
consult the National Assembly. National Assembly answers, not without an
effort, that Mesdames may go. Whereupon Paris rises worse than ever,
screeching half-distracted. Tuileries and precincts are filled with women
and men, while the National Assembly debates this question of questions;
Lafayette is needed at night for dispersing them, and the streets are to be
illuminated.
Commandant Berthier?,
a Berthier before whom are great things
unknown, lies for the present under blockade at Bellevue in Versailles. By
no tactics could he get Mesdames' Luggage stirred from the Courts there;
frantic Versaillese women came screaming about him; his very troops cut the
waggon-traces; he retired to the interior, waiting better times.
(Campan, ii. 132.)
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The women make it across the frontier, but their baggage does not.
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Nay, in these same hours, while Mesdames hardly cut out from Moret by the
sabre's edge, are driving rapidly, to foreign parts, and not yet stopped at
Arnay, their august nephew poor Monsieur, at Paris has dived deep into his
cellars of the Luxembourg for shelter; and according to Montgaillard can
hardly be persuaded up again. Screeching multitudes environ that
Luxembourg of his: drawn thither by report of his departure: but, at
sight and sound of Monsieur, they become crowing multitudes; and escort
Madame and him to the Tuileries with vivats. (Montgaillard,
ii. 282; Deux Amis, vi. c. 1.)
It is a state of nervous excitability such as few Nations
know.
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The king remains under close and nervous watch.
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Or, again, what means this visible reparation of the Castle of Vincennes?
Other Jails being all crowded with prisoners, new space is wanted here:
that is the Municipal account. For in such changing of Judicatures,
Parlements being abolished, and New Courts but just set up, prisoners have
accumulated. Not to say that in these times of discord and club-law,
offences and committals are, at any rate, more numerous. Which Municipal
account, does it not sufficiently explain the phenomenon? Surely, to
repair the Castle of Vincennes was of all enterprises that an enlightened
Municipality could undertake, the most innocent.
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The palace and fortress at Vincennes, a small nearby town east of Paris,
is refurbished for prison space.
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Not so however does neighbouring Saint-Antoine look on it: Saint-Antoine
to whom these peaked turrets and grim donjons, all-too near her own dark
dwelling, are of themselves an offence. Was not Vincennes a kind of minor
Bastille? Great Diderot and Philosophes have lain in durance here; great
Mirabeau, in disastrous eclipse, for forty-two months. And now when the
old Bastille has become a dancing-ground (had any one the mirth to dance),
and its stones are getting built into the Pont Louis-Seize, does this
minor, comparative insignificance of a Bastille flank itself with fresh-hewn
mullions, spread out tyrannous wings; menacing Patriotism? New space
for prisoners: and what prisoners? A d'Orléans,
with the chief Patriots on
the tip of the Left? It is said, there runs 'a subterranean passage' all
the way from the Tuileries hither. Who knows? Paris, mined with quarries
and catacombs, does hang wondrous over the abyss; Paris was once to be
blown up, — though the powder, when we went to look, had got withdrawn. A
Tuileries, sold to Austria and Coblentz, should have no subterranean
passage. Out of which might not Coblentz or Austria issue, some morning;
and, with cannon of long range, 'foudroyer,'
bethunder a patriotic Saint-Antoine into smoulder and ruin!
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This causes unease in the eastern suburb of Saint-Antoine.
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So meditates the benighted soul of Saint-Antoine, as it sees the aproned
workmen, in early spring, busy on these towers. An official-speaking
Municipality, a
Sieur Motier?
with his legions of
mouchards?,
deserve no
trust at all. Were Patriot
Santerre?,
indeed, Commander! But the sonorous
Brewer commands only our own Battalion: of such secrets he can explain
nothing, knows nothing, perhaps suspects much. And so the work goes on;
and afflicted benighted Saint-Antoine hears rattle of hammers, sees stones
suspended in air. (Montgaillard, ii. 285.)
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The official explanations are looked on with suspicion.
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Saint-Antoine prostrated the first great Bastille: will it falter over
this comparative insignificance of a Bastille? Friends, what if we took
pikes, firelocks, sledgehammers; and helped ourselves! — Speedier is no
remedy; nor so certain. On the 28th day of February, Saint-Antoine turns
out, as it has now often done; and, apparently with little superfluous
tumult, moves eastward to that eye-sorrow of Vincennes. With grave voice
of authority, no need of bullying and shouting, Saint-Antoine signifies to
parties concerned there that its purpose is, To have this suspicious
Stronghold razed level with the general soil of the country. Remonstrance
may be proffered, with zeal: but it avails not. The outer gate goes up,
drawbridges tumble; iron window-stanchions, smitten out with sledgehammers,
become iron-crowbars: it rains furniture, stone-masses, slates: with
chaotic clatter and rattle, Demolition clatters down. And now hasty
expresses rush through the agitated streets, to warn Lafayette, and the
Municipal and Departmental Authorities; Rumour warns a National Assembly, a
Royal Tuileries, and all men who care to hear it: That Saint-Antoine is
up; that Vincennes, and probably the last remaining Institution of the
Country, is coming down. (Deux Amis, vi. 11-15; Newspapers
(in Hist. Parl. ix. 111-17).)
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February 28, 1791. A crowd marches from Saint-Antoine to level the Castle
of Vincennes.
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Quick, then! Let Lafayette roll his drums and fly eastward; for to all
Constitutional Patriots this is again bad news. And you, ye Friends of
Royalty, snatch your poniards of improved structure, made to order; your
sword-canes, secret arms, and tickets of entry; quick, by backstairs
passages, rally round the Son of Sixty Kings. An effervescence probably
got up by d'Orléans and Company,
for the overthrow of Throne and Altar: it
is said her Majesty shall be put in prison, put out of the way; what then
will his Majesty be? Clay for the Sansculottic Potter! Or were it
impossible to fly this day; a brave Noblesse suddenly all rallying? Peril
threatens, hope invites: Dukes
de Villequier?,
de Duras, Gentlemen of the
Chamber give tickets and admittance; a brave Noblesse is suddenly all
rallying. Now were the time to 'fall sword in hand on those gentry there,'
could it be done with effect.
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This seems a good time for the Royalists to free the King, with the city
distracted.
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The Hero of two Worlds is on his white charger; blue Nationals, horse and
foot, hurrying eastward: Santerre, with the Saint-Antoine Battalion, is
already there, — apparently indisposed to act. Heavy-laden Hero of two
Worlds, what tasks are these! The jeerings, provocative gambollings of
that Patriot Suburb, which is all out on the streets now, are hard to
endure; unwashed Patriots jeering in sulky sport; one unwashed Patriot
'seizing the General by the boot' to unhorse him. Santerre, ordered to
fire, makes answer obliquely, "These are the men that took the Bastille;"
and not a trigger stirs! Neither dare the Vincennes Magistracy give
warrant of arrestment, or the smallest countenance: wherefore the General
'will take it on himself' to arrest. By promptitude, by cheerful
adroitness, patience and brisk valour without limits, the riot may be again
bloodlessly appeased.
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Lafayette takes charge at Vincennes and brings an end to the riot without
loss of life.
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Meanwhile, the rest of Paris, with more or less unconcern, may mind the
rest of its business: for what is this but an effervescence, of which
there are now so many? The National Assembly, in one of its stormiest
moods, is debating a Law against Emigration; Mirabeau declaring aloud, "I
swear beforehand that I will not obey it." Mirabeau is often at the
Tribune this day; with endless impediments from without; with the old
unabated energy from within. What can murmurs and clamours, from Left or
from Right, do to this man; like
Teneriffe?
or Atlas?
unremoved? With clear
thought; with strong bass-voice, though at first low, uncertain, he claims
audience, sways the storm of men: anon the sound of him waxes, softens; he
rises into far-sounding melody of strength, triumphant, which subdues all
hearts; his rude-seamed face, desolate fire-scathed, becomes fire-lit, and
radiates: once again men feel, in these beggarly ages, what is the potency
and omnipotency of man's word on the souls of men. "I will triumph or be
torn in fragments," he was once heard to say. "Silence," he cries now, in
strong word of command, in imperial consciousness of strength, "Silence,
the thirty voices, Silence aux trente voix!" — and Robespierre and the
Thirty Voices [the Montanists] die into mutterings;
and the Law is once more as Mirabeau
would have it.
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On the same day Mirabeau is showing he still holds sway over the Constituent.
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How different, at the same instant, is General Lafayette's street
eloquence; wrangling with sonorous Brewers, with an ungrammatical
Saint-Antoine!
Most different, again, from both is the Café-de-Valois eloquence,
and suppressed fanfaronade [braggadocio],
of this multitude of men with Tickets of Entry;
who are now inundating the Corridors of the Tuileries. Such things can go
on simultaneously in one City. How much more in one Country; in one Planet
with its discrepancies, every Day a mere crackling infinitude of
discrepancies — which nevertheless do yield some coherent net-product,
though an infinitesimally small one!
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Carlyle contrasts the scenes at Vincennes, at the Ménage and at the
Tuileries.
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Be this as it may. Lafayette has saved Vincennes; and is marching
homewards with some dozen of arrested demolitionists. Royalty is not yet
saved; — nor indeed specially endangered. But to the King's Constitutional
Guard, to these old Gardes Françaises,
or Centre Grenadiers, as it chanced
to be, this affluence of men with Tickets of Entry is becoming more and
more unintelligible. Is his Majesty verily for Metz, then; to be carried
off by these men, on the spur of the instant? That revolt of Saint-Antoine
got up by traitor Royalists for a stalking-horse? Keep a sharp outlook, ye
Centre Grenadiers on duty here: good never came from the 'men in black.'
Nay they have cloaks, redingotes; some of them leather-breeches, boots, — as
if for instant riding! Or what is this that sticks visible from the
lapelle of Chevalier de
Court??
(Weber, ii. 286.)
Too like the handle of
some cutting or stabbing instrument! He glides and goes; and still the
dudgeon sticks from his left lapelle. "Hold, Monsieur!" — a Centre
Grenadier clutches him; clutches the protrusive dudgeon, whisks it out in
the face of the world: by Heaven, a very dagger; hunting-knife, or
whatsoever you call it; fit to drink the life of Patriotism!
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The guards at the Tuileries are on high alert. They hold Court
de Gébelin (I assume it is he) on a weapons charge.
|
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So fared it with Chevalier de Court, early in the day; not without noise;
not without commentaries. And now this continually increasing multitude at
nightfall? Have they daggers too? Alas, with them too, after angry
parleyings, there has begun a groping and a rummaging; all men in black,
spite of their Tickets of Entry, are clutched by the collar, and groped.
Scandalous to think of; for always, as the dirk, sword-cane, pistol, or
were it but tailor's bodkin, is found on him, and with loud scorn drawn
forth from him, he, the hapless man in black, is flung all too rapidly down
stairs. Flung; and ignominiously descends, head foremost; accelerated by
ignominious shovings from sentry after sentry; nay, as is written, by
smitings, twitchings, — spurnings, a posteriori, not to be named. In this
accelerated way, emerges, uncertain which end uppermost, man after man in
black, through all issues, into the Tuileries Garden. Emerges, alas, into
the arms of an indignant multitude, now gathered and gathering there, in
the hour of dusk, to see what is toward, and whether the Hereditary
Representative is carried off or not. Hapless men in black; at last
convicted of poniards made to order;
convicted 'Chevaliers of the Poniard!'
Within is as the burning ship; without is as the deep sea. Within is no
help; his Majesty, looking forth, one moment, from his interior
sanctuaries, coldly bids all visitors 'give up their weapons;' and shuts
the door again. The weapons given up form a heap: the convicted
Chevaliers of the poniard keep descending pellmell, with impetuous
velocity; and at the bottom of all staircases, the mixed multitude receives
them, hustles, buffets, chases and disperses them.
(Hist. Parl. ix. 139-48.)
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Subsequent visitors are searched and, if found armed, rudely dismissed.
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Such sight meets Lafayette, in the dusk of the evening, as he returns,
successful with difficulty at Vincennes: Sansculotte Scylla hardly
weathered, here is Aristocrat Charybdis[121]
gurgling under his lee! The
patient Hero of two Worlds almost loses temper. He accelerates, does not
retard, the flying Chevaliers; delivers, indeed, this or the other hunted
Loyalist of quality, but rates him in bitter words, such as the hour
suggested; such as no saloon could pardon. Hero ill-bested; hanging, so to
speak, in mid-air; hateful to Rich divinities above; hateful to Indigent
mortals below! Duke de Villequier, Gentleman of the Chamber, gets such
contumelious rating, in presence of all people there, that he may see good
first to exculpate himself in the Newspapers; then, that not prospering, to
retire over the Frontiers, and begin plotting at Brussels.
(Montgaillard, ii. 286.)
His Apartment will stand vacant; usefuller, as we may find, than
when it stood occupied.
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Lafayette returns to boot the aristocrats a little harder.
|
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So fly the Chevaliers of the Poniard; hunted of Patriotic men, shamefully
in the thickening dusk. A dim miserable business; born of darkness; dying
away there in the thickening dusk and dimness! In the midst of which,
however, let the reader discern clearly one figure running for its life:
Crispin-Catiline
d'Espréménil?,
— for the last time, or the last but one. It
is not yet three years since these same Centre Grenadiers, Gardes
Françaises then, marched him towards the Calypso Isles,
in the gray of the
May morning; and he and they have got thus far. Buffeted, beaten down,
delivered by popular Pétion, he might well answer bitterly: "And I too,
Monsieur, have been carried on the People's shoulders."
(See Mercier, ii.40, 202.)
A fact which popular Pétion, if he like, can meditate.
|
Even a former popular favourite and President of the Paris Parlement is
pummled.
|
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But happily, one way and another, the speedy night covers up this
ignominious Day of Poniards; and the Chevaliers escape, though maltreated,
with torn coat-skirts and heavy hearts, to their respective dwelling-houses.
Riot twofold is quelled; and little blood shed, if it be not
insignificant blood from the nose: Vincennes stands undemolished,
reparable; and the Hereditary Representative has not been stolen, nor the
Queen smuggled into Prison. A Day long remembered: commented on with loud
hahas and deep grumblings; with bitter scornfulness of triumph, bitter
rancour of defeat. Royalism, as usual, imputes it to d'Orléans and the
Anarchists intent on insulting Majesty: Patriotism, as usual, to
Royalists, and even Constitutionalists, intent on stealing Majesty to Metz:
we, also as usual, to Preternatural Suspicion, and Phoebus Apollo having
made himself like the Night.
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Those on the ground saw in these things, plots.
|
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|
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Thus however has the reader seen, in an unexpected arena, on this last day
of February 1791, the Three long-contending elements of French Society,
dashed forth into singular comico-tragical collision; acting and reacting
openly to the eye. Constitutionalism, at once quelling Sansculottic riot
at Vincennes, and Royalist treachery from the Tuileries, is great, this
day, and prevails. As for poor Royalism, tossed to and fro in that manner,
its daggers all left in a heap, what can one think of it? Every dog, the
Adage says, has its day: has it; has had it; or will have it.
For the
present, the day is Lafayette's and the Constitution's. Nevertheless
Hunger and Jacobinism, fast growing fanatical, still work; their day, were
they once fanatical, will come. Hitherto, in all tempests, Lafayette, like
some divine Sea-ruler, raises his serene head: the upper Aeolus's blasts
fly back to their caves, like foolish unbidden winds: the under sea-
billows they had vexed into froth allay themselves. But if, as we often
write, the submarine Titanic Fire-powers came into play, the Ocean bed from
beneath being burst? If they hurled Poseidon Lafayette and his
Constitution out of Space; and, in the Titanic melee, sea were mixed with
sky?
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To this point, the constitutionalists have maintained control and a balance
of power. The balance will soon change.
|
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The spirit of France waxes ever more acrid, fever-sick: towards the final
outburst of dissolution and delirium. Suspicion rules all minds:
contending parties cannot now commingle; stand separated sheer asunder,
eying one another, in most aguish mood, of cold terror or hot rage.
Counter-Revolution, Days of Poniards, Castries Duels; Flight of Mesdames,
of Monsieur and Royalty! Journalism shrills ever louder its cry of alarm.
The sleepless
Dionysius's Ear[118]
of the Forty-eight Sections, how feverishly
quick has it grown; convulsing with strange pangs the whole sick Body, as
in such sleeplessness and sickness, the ear will do!
|
Far from the aim of fraternity, the contending factions in France scarcely
speak to one another.
|
|
Since Royalists get Poniards made to order, and a Sieur Motier is no better
than he should be, shall not Patriotism too, even of the indigent sort,
have Pikes, secondhand Firelocks, in readiness for the worst? The anvils
ring, during this March month, with hammering of Pikes. A Constitutional
Municipality promulgated its Placard, that no citizen except the 'active or
cash-citizen' was entitled to have arms; but there rose, instantly
responsive, such a tempest of astonishment from Club and Section, that the
Constitutional Placard, almost next morning, had to cover itself up, and
die away into inanity, in a second improved edition.
(Ordonnance du 17 Mars 1791 (Hist. Parl. ix. 257).)
So the hammering continues; as all that
it betokens does.
|
The poor and the radicals, arm themselves. The other factions are already
armed.
|
|
Mark, again, how the extreme tip of the Left is mounting in favour, if not
in its own National Hall, yet with the Nation, especially with Paris. For
in such universal panic of doubt, the opinion that is sure of itself, as
the meagrest opinion may the soonest be, is the one to which all men will
rally. Great is Belief, were it never so meagre; and leads captive the
doubting heart! Incorruptible Robespierre has been elected Public Accuser
in our new Courts of Judicature; virtuous Pétion, it is thought,
may rise
to be Mayor. Cordelier Danton, called also by triumphant majorities, sits
at the Departmental Council-table; colleague there of Mirabeau. Of
incorruptible Robespierre it was long ago predicted that he might go far,
mean meagre mortal though he was; for Doubt dwelt not in him.
|
Those voices which sounded sure are the ones listened to. Incorruptibility,
as supposed in Robespierre and Pétion, has political clout.
|
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Under which circumstances ought not Royalty likewise to cease doubting, and
begin deciding and acting? Royalty has always that sure trump-card in its
hand: Flight out of Paris. Which sure trump-card, Royalty, as we see,
keeps ever and anon clutching at, grasping; and swashes it forth
tentatively; yet never tables it, still puts it back again. Play it, O
Royalty! If there be a chance left, this seems it, and verily the last
chance; and now every hour is rendering this a doubtfuller. Alas, one
would so fain both fly and not fly; play one's card and have it to play.
Royalty, in all human likelihood, will not play its trump-card till the
honours, one after one, be mainly lost; and such trumping of it prove to be
the sudden finish of the game!
|
If the royalists were to act decisively, particularly in getting the King
out of Paris, perhaps the balance would change.
|
|
Here accordingly a question always arises; of the prophetic sort; which
cannot now be answered. Suppose Mirabeau, with whom Royalty takes deep
counsel, as with a Prime Minister that cannot yet legally avow himself as
such, had got his arrangements completed? Arrangements he has; far-
stretching plans that dawn fitfully on us, by fragments, in the confused
darkness. Thirty Departments ready to sign loyal Addresses, of prescribed
tenor: King carried out of Paris, but only to Compiègne and Rouen, hardly
to Metz, since, once for all, no Emigrant rabble shall take the lead in it:
National Assembly consenting, by dint of loyal Addresses, by management, by
force of Bouillé, to hear reason, and follow thither!
(See Fils Adoptif, vii. 1. 6; Dumont, c. 11, 12, 14.)
Was it so, on these terms, that
Jacobinism and Mirabeau were then to grapple, in their Hercules-and-Typhon
duel;[122]
death inevitable for the one or the other? The duel itself is
determined on, and sure: but on what terms; much more, with what issue, we
in vain guess. It is vague darkness all: unknown what is to be; unknown
even what has already been. The giant Mirabeau walks in darkness, as we
said; companionless, on wild ways: what his thoughts during these months
were, no record of Biographer, not vague Fils Adoptif, will now ever
disclose.
|
Carlyle contemplates "what if" Mirabeau had succeeded in moving King
and family to a friendly district of France and negotiated from that
position.
|
|
To us, endeavouring to cast his horoscope, it of course remains doubly
vague. There is one Herculean man, in internecine duel with him, there is
Monster after Monster. Emigrant Noblesse return, sword on thigh, vaunting
of their Loyalty never sullied; descending from the air, like Harpy-swarms
with ferocity, with obscene greed. Earthward there is the Typhon of
Anarchy, Political, Religious; sprawling hundred-headed, say with Twenty-
five million heads; wide as the area of France; fierce as Frenzy; strong in
very Hunger. With these shall the Serpent-queller do battle continually,
and expect no rest.
|
If Mirabeau is a Hercules, he is the only one. There are many monsters to
be battled.
|
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As for the King, he as usual will go wavering chameleonlike; changing
colour and purpose with the colour of his environment; — good for no Kingly
use. On one royal person, on the Queen only, can Mirabeau perhaps place
dependence. It is possible, the greatness of this man, not unskilled too
in blandishments, courtiership, and graceful adroitness, might, with most
legitimate sorcery, fascinate the volatile Queen, and fix her to him. She
has courage for all noble daring; an eye and a heart: the soul of
Theresa's Daughter. 'Faut il-donc, Is it fated then,' she passionately
writes to her Brother, 'that I with the blood I am come of, with the
sentiments I have, must live and die among such mortals?'
(Fils Adoptif, ubi supra.)
Alas, poor Princess, Yes. 'She is the only man,' as Mirabeau
observes, 'whom his Majesty has about him.' Of one other man Mirabeau is
still surer: of himself. There lies his resources; sufficient or
insufficient.
|
Carlyle dismisses the King. The king's wife, Carlyle thinks,
might have some mettle.
Mirabeau's faith in himself is his strength.
|
|
Dim and great to the eye of Prophecy looks the future! A perpetual
life-and-death battle; confusion from above and from below; — mere confused
darkness for us; with here and there some streak of faint lurid light. We
see King perhaps laid aside; not tonsured, tonsuring is out of fashion now;
but say, sent away any whither, with handsome annual allowance, and stock
of smith-tools. We see a Queen and Dauphin, Regent and Minor; a Queen
'mounted on horseback,' in the din of battles, with Moriamur pro rege
nostro! [We shall die for our king!]
'Such a day,' Mirabeau writes, 'may come.'
|
Perhaps Mirabeau too would have dismissed the King and served as the power
behind a Regent throne.
|
|
Din of battles, wars more than civil, confusion from above and from below:
in such environment the eye of Prophecy sees Comte de Mirabeau, like some
Cardinal de Retz, stormfully maintain himself; with head all-devising,
heart all-daring, if not victorious, yet unvanquished, while life is left
him. The specialties and issues of it, no eye of Prophecy can guess at:
it is clouds, we repeat, and tempestuous night; and in the middle of it,
now visible, far darting, now labouring in eclipse, is Mirabeau indomitably
struggling to be Cloud-Compeller! — One can say that, had Mirabeau lived,
the History of France and of the World had been different. Further, that
the man would have needed, as few men ever did, the whole compass of that
same 'Art of Daring, Art d'Oser,' which he so prized;
and likewise that he,
above all men then living, would have practised and manifested it.
Finally, that some substantiality, and no empty simulacrum of a formula,
would have been the result realised by him: a result you could have loved,
a result you could have hated; by no likelihood, a result you could only
have rejected with closed lips, and swept into quick forgetfulness for
ever. Had Mirabeau lived one other year!
|
Carlyle, of course, does not know what would have happened had Mirabeau lived,
but he feels strongly it would not have been what did happen.
|
|
But Mirabeau could not live another year, any more than he could live
another thousand years. Men's years are numbered, and the tale of
Mirabeau's was now complete. Important, or unimportant; to be mentioned in
World-History for some centuries, or not to be mentioned there beyond a day
or two, — it matters not to peremptory Fate. From amid the press of ruddy
busy Life, the Pale Messenger beckons silently: wide-spreading interests,
projects, salvation of French Monarchies, what thing soever man has on
hand, he must suddenly quit it all, and go. Wert thou saving French
Monarchies; wert thou blacking shoes on the Pont Neuf! The most important
of men cannot stay; did the World's History depend on an hour, that hour is
not to be given. Whereby, indeed, it comes that these same
would-have-beens
are mostly a vanity; and the World's History could never in the least
be what it would, or might, or should, by any manner of potentiality, but
simply and altogether what it is.
|
Carlyle almost apologizes for his fanciful departure into alternate history.
|
|
The fierce wear and tear of such an existence has wasted out the giant
oaken strength of Mirabeau. A fret and fever that keeps heart and brain on
fire: excess of effort, of excitement; excess of all kinds: labour
incessant, almost beyond credibility! 'If I had not lived with him,' says
Dumont, 'I should never have known what a man can make of one day; what
things may be placed within the interval of twelve hours. A day for this
man was more than a week or a month is for others: the mass of things he
guided on together was prodigious; from the scheming to the executing not a
moment lost.' "Monsieur le Comte," said his Secretary to him once, "what
you require is impossible." — "Impossible!" answered he starting from his
chair, "Ne me dites jamais ce bête de mot,
Never name to me that blockhead
of a word." (Dumont, p. 311.)
And then the social repasts; the dinner
which he gives as Commandant of National Guards, which 'costs five hundred
pounds;' alas, and 'the Sirens of the Opera;' and all the ginger that is
hot in the mouth: — down what a course is this man hurled! Cannot Mirabeau
stop; cannot he fly, and save himself alive? No! There is a
Nessus' Shirt[49]
on this Hercules; he must storm and burn there, without rest, till he be
consumed. Human strength, never so Herculean, has its measure. Herald
shadows flit pale across the fire-brain of Mirabeau; heralds of the pale
repose. While he tosses and storms, straining every nerve, in that sea of
ambition and confusion, there comes, somber and still, a monition that for
him the issue of it will be swift death.
|
Mirabeau had a reputation for working hard and playing hard. [Some of the
work attributed to him, however was actually done by his secretary.]
|
|
In January last, you might see him as President of the Assembly; 'his neck
wrapt in linen cloths, at the evening session:' there was sick heat of the
blood, alternate darkening and flashing in the eye-sight; he had to apply
leeches, after the morning labour, and preside bandaged. 'At parting he
embraced me,' says Dumont, 'with an emotion I had never seen in him: "I am
dying, my friend; dying as by slow fire; we shall perhaps not meet again.
When I am gone, they will know what the value of me was. The miseries I
have held back will burst from all sides on France."'
(Dumont, p. 267.)
Sickness gives louder warning; but cannot be listened to. On the 27th day
of March, proceeding towards the Assembly, he had to seek rest and help in
Friend de Lamarck's?,
by the road; and lay there, for an hour, half-fainted,
stretched on a sofa. To the Assembly nevertheless he went, as if in spite
of Destiny itself; spoke, loud and eager, five several times; then quitted
the Tribune — for ever. He steps out, utterly exhausted, into the Tuileries
Gardens; many people press round him, as usual, with applications,
memorials; he says to the Friend who was with him: Take me out of this!
|
He worked almost to the last day of his life.
|
|
And so, on the last day of March 1791, endless anxious multitudes beset the
Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin; incessantly inquiring:
within doors there, in
that House numbered in our time '42,' the over wearied giant has fallen
down, to die. (Fils Adoptif, viii. 420-79.)
Crowds, of all parties and
kinds; of all ranks from the King to the meanest man! The King sends
publicly twice a-day to inquire; privately besides: from the world at
large there is no end of inquiring. 'A written bulletin is handed out
every three hours,' is copied and circulated; in the end, it is printed.
The People spontaneously keep silence; no carriage shall enter with its
noise: there is crowding pressure; but the Sister of Mirabeau is
reverently recognised, and has free way made for her. The People stand
mute, heart-stricken; to all it seems as if a great calamity were nigh: as
if the last man of France, who could have swayed these coming troubles, lay
there at hand-grips with the unearthly Power.
|
In his last few days, Mirabeau is already mourned.
|
|
The silence of a whole People, the wakeful toil of
Cabanis, Friend and
Physician,?
skills not: on Saturday, the second day of April, Mirabeau
feels that the last of the Days has risen for him; that, on this day, he
has to depart and be no more. His death is Titanic, as his life has been.
Lit up, for the last time, in the glare of coming dissolution, the mind of
the man is all glowing and burning; utters itself in sayings, such as men
long remember. He longs to live, yet acquiesces in death, argues not with
the inexorable. His speech is wild and wondrous: unearthly Phantasms
dancing now their torch-dance round his soul; the soul itself looking out,
fire-radiant, motionless, girt together for that great hour! At times
comes a beam of light from him on the world he is quitting. "I carry in my
heart the death-dirge of the French Monarchy; the dead remains of it will
now be the spoil of the factious." Or again, when he heard the cannon
fire, what is characteristic too: "Have we the Achilles' Funeral already?"
So likewise, while some friend is supporting him: "Yes, support that head;
would I could bequeath it thee!" For the man dies as he has lived;
self-conscious, conscious of a world looking on. He gazes forth on the young
Spring, which for him will never be Summer. The Sun has risen; he says:
"Si ce n'est pas là Dieu, c'est du moins son cousin germain."
["If it is not God, it is at least His first cousin."]
(Fils Adoptif, viii.
450; Journal de la maladie et de la mort de Mirabeau, par
P.J.G. Cabanis (Paris, 1803).)—Death has mastered the outworks;
power of
speech is gone; the citadel of the heart still holding out: the moribund
giant, passionately, by sign, demands paper and pen; writes his passionate
demand for opium, to end these agonies. The sorrowful Doctor shakes his
head: Dormir 'To sleep,' writes the other,
passionately pointing at it!
So dies a gigantic Heathen and Titan; stumbling blindly, undismayed, down
to his rest. At half-past eight in the morning, Dr. Petit, standing at the
foot of the bed, says "Il ne souffre plus." ["He suffers no more."]
His suffering and his working
are now ended.
|
Mirabeau dies, April 2, 1791.
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|
Even so, ye silent Patriot multitudes, all ye men of France; this man is
rapt away from you. He has fallen suddenly, without bending till he broke;
as a tower falls, smitten by sudden lightning. His word ye shall hear no
more, his guidance follow no more. — The multitudes depart, heartstruck;
spread the sad tidings. How touching is the loyalty of men to their
Sovereign Man! All theatres, public amusements close; no joyful meeting
can be held in these nights, joy is not for them: the People break in upon
private dancing-parties, and sullenly command that they cease. Of such
dancing-parties apparently but two came to light; and these also have gone
out. The gloom is universal: never in this City was such sorrow for one
death; never since that old night when Louis XII. departed, 'and the
Crieurs des Corps went sounding their bells,
and crying along the streets:
Le bon roi Louis, pere du peuple, est mort,
The good King Louis, Father of
the People, is dead!' (Hénault,
Abrégé Chronologique, p. 429.) King
Mirabeau is now the lost King; and one may say with little exaggeration,
all the People mourns for him.
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The death is deeply mourned in Paris.
|
|
For three days there is low wide moan: weeping in the National Assembly
itself. The streets are all mournful; orators mounted on the
bornes [lit. terminals, boundaries], with
large silent audience, preaching the funeral sermon of the dead. Let no
coachman whip fast, distractively with his rolling wheels, or almost at
all, through these groups! His traces may be cut; himself and his fare, as
incurable Aristocrats, hurled sulkily into the kennels. The bourne-stone
orators speak as it is given them; the Sansculottic People, with its rude
soul, listens eager, — as men will to any Sermon, or Sermo,
when it is a
spoken Word meaning a Thing, and not a Babblement meaning No-thing. In the
Restaurateur's of the Palais Royal, the waiter remarks, "Fine weather,
Monsieur:"—"Yes, my friend," answers the ancient Man of Letters, "very
fine; but Mirabeau is dead." Hoarse rhythmic threnodies comes also from
the throats of balladsingers; are sold on gray-white paper at a sou each.
(Fils Adoptif, viii. l. 19; Newspapers and Excerpts
(in Hist. Parl. ix. 366-402).)
But of Portraits, engraved, painted, hewn, and written; of
Eulogies, Reminiscences, Biographies, nay Vaudevilles, Dramas and
Melodramas, in all Provinces of France, there will, through these coming
months, be the due immeasurable crop; thick as the leaves of Spring. Nor,
that a tincture of burlesque might be in it, is Gobel's Episcopal
Mandement [call for prayers]
wanting; goose Gobel, who has just been made Constitutional Bishop of
Paris. A Mandement wherein
Ça ira?
alternates very strangely with Nomine
Domini, and you are, with a grave countenance, invited to 'rejoice at
possessing in the midst of you a body of Prelates created by Mirabeau,
zealous followers of his doctrine, faithful imitators of his virtues.'
(Hist. Parl. ix. 405.)
So speaks, and cackles manifold, the Sorrow of
France; wailing articulately, inarticulately, as it can, that a Sovereign
Man is snatched away. In the National Assembly, when difficult questions
are astir, all eyes will 'turn mechanically to the place where Mirabeau
sat,' — and Mirabeau is absent now.
|
Displays of public grief are wide-spread and elaborate.
|
|
On the third evening of the lamentation, the fourth of April, there is
solemn Public Funeral; such as deceased mortal seldom had. Procession of a
league in length; of mourners reckoned loosely at a hundred thousand! All
roofs are thronged with onlookers, all windows, lamp-irons, branches of
trees. 'Sadness is painted on every countenance; many persons weep.'
There is double hedge of National Guards; there is National Assembly in a
body; Jacobin Society, and Societies; King's Ministers, Municipals, and all
Notabilities, Patriot or Aristocrat. Bouillé is noticeable there, 'with
his hat on;' say, hat drawn over his brow, hiding many thoughts! Slow-
wending, in religious silence, the Procession of a league in length, under
the level sun-rays, for it is five o'clock, moves and marches: with its
sable plumes; itself in a religious silence; but, by fits, with the muffled
roll of drums, by fits with some long-drawn wail of music, and strange new
clangour of trombones, and metallic dirge-voice; amid the infinite hum of
men. In the Church of Saint-Eustache, there is funeral oration by
Cerutti?;
and discharge of fire-arms, which 'brings down pieces of the plaster.'
Thence, forward again to the Church of Sainte-Genevieve; which has been
consecrated, by supreme decree, on the spur of this time, into a
Pantheon?
for the Great Men of the Fatherland, Aux Grands Hommes la Patrie
réconnaissante.
Hardly at midnight is the business done; and Mirabeau left
in his dark dwelling: first tenant of that Fatherland's Pantheon.
|
Mirabeau is buried with pomp and interred in the Pantheon.
|
|
Tenant, alas, who inhabits but at will, and shall be cast out! For, in
these days of convulsion and disjection, not even the dust of the dead is
permitted to rest. Voltaire's bones are, by and by, to be carried from
their stolen grave in the Abbéy of Scellières,
to an eager stealing grave,
in Paris his birth-city: all mortals processioning and perorating there;
cars drawn by eight white horses, goadsters in classical costume, with
fillets and wheat-ears enough; — though the weather is of the wettest.
(Moniteur, du 13 Juillet 1791.)
Evangelist Jean Jacques, too, as is most
proper, must be dug up from Ermenonville, and processioned, with pomp, with
sensibility, to the Pantheon of the Fatherland.(Ibid. du 18
Septembre, 1794. See also du 30 Août, etc. 1791.)
He and others: while again
Mirabeau, we say, is cast forth from it, happily incapable of being
replaced; and rests now, irrecognisable, reburied hastily at dead of night,
'in the central part of the Churchyard Sainte-Catherine, in the Suburb
Saint-Marceau,' to be disturbed no further.
|
Mirabeau's body in joined in the Pantheon by those of Voltaire and Rousseau,
but is removed in 1792 when the King's payments to him are discovered.
|
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So blazes out, farseen, a Man's Life, and becomes ashes and a caput
mortuum [residue], in this World-Pyre, which we name French Revolution:
not the
first that consumed itself there; nor, by thousands and many millions, the
last! A man who 'had swallowed all formulas;' who, in these strange times
and circumstances, felt called to live Titanically, and also to die so. As
he, for his part had swallowed all formulas, what Formula is there, never
so comprehensive, that will express truly the plus and the
minus, give us
the accurate net-result of him? There is hitherto none such. Moralities
not a few must shriek condemnatory over this Mirabeau; the Morality by
which he could be judged has not yet got uttered in the speech of men. We
shall say this of him, again: That he is a Reality, and no Simulacrum: a
living son of Nature our general Mother; not a hollow Artifice, and
mechanism of Conventionalities,
son?
of nothing,
brother?
to nothing. In
which little word, let the earnest man, walking sorrowful in a world mostly
of 'Stuffed Clothes-suits,' that chatter and grin meaningless on him, quite
ghastly to the earnest soul, — think what significance there is!
|
Whatever his faults, Mirabeau was a man of energy, direction and clear mind.
|
|
Of men who, in such sense, are alive, and see with eyes, the number is now
not great: it may be well, if in this huge French Revolution itself, with
its all-developing fury, we find some Three. Mortals driven rabid we find;
sputtering the acridest logic; baring their breast to the battle-hail,
their neck to the guillotine; of whom it is so painful to say that they too
are still, in good part, manufactured Formalities, not Facts but Hearsays!
|
He left behind him in France few men of his mettle.
|
Honour to the strong man, in these ages, who has shaken himself loose of
shams, and is something. For in the way of being worthy, the first
condition surely is that one be. Let Cant cease, at all risks and at all
costs: till Cant cease, nothing else can begin. Of human Criminals, in
these centuries, writes the Moralist, I find but one unforgivable: the
Quack. 'Hateful to God,' as divine Dante sings, 'and to the Enemies of
God,
A Dio spiacente ed a' nemici sui!
|
His strengths were: he spoke and acted as he believed and thought best,
not from rote or formula.
|
|
But whoever will, with sympathy, which is the first essential towards
insight, look at this questionable Mirabeau, may find that there lay verily
in him, as the basis of all, a Sincerity, a great free Earnestness; nay
call it Honesty, for the man did before all things see, with that clear
flashing vision, into what was, into what existed as fact; and did, with
his wild heart, follow that and no other. Whereby on what ways soever he
travels and struggles, often enough falling, he is still a brother man.
Hate him not; thou canst not hate him! Shining through such soil and
tarnish, and now victorious effulgent, and oftenest struggling eclipsed,
the light of genius itself is in this man; which was never yet base and
hateful: but at worst was lamentable, lovable with pity. They say that
he was ambitious, that he wanted to be Minister. It is most true; and was
he not simply the one man in France who could have done any good as
Minister? Not vanity alone, not pride alone; far from that! Wild
burstings of affection were in this great heart; of fierce lightning, and
soft dew of pity. So sunk, bemired in wretchedest defacements, it may be
said of him, like the Magdalen of old, that he loved much: his Father the
harshest of old crabbed men he loved with warmth, with veneration.
|
He possessed and acted on intellectual honesty.
|
|
Be it that his falls and follies are manifold, — as himself often lamented
even with tears. (Dumont, p. 287.)
Alas, is not the Life of every such
man already a poetic Tragedy; made up 'of Fate and of one's own
Deservings,' of Schicksal und eigene Schuld [fate and one's own
deserts];
full of the elements of Pity
and Fear? This brother man, if not Epic for us, is Tragic; if not great,
is large; large in his qualities, world-large in his destinies. Whom other
men, recognising him as such, may, through long times, remember, and draw
nigh to examine and consider: these, in their several dialects, will say
of him and sing of him, — till the right thing be said; and so the Formula
that can judge him be no longer an undiscovered one.
|
Whatever his true deserts, men will talk of him until they are clear.
|
|
Here then the wild Gabriel Honoré drops from the tissue of our
History; not
without a tragic farewell. He is gone: the flower of the wild Riquetti or
Arrighetti kindred; which seems as if in him, with one last effort, it had
done its best, and then expired, or sunk down to the undistinguished level.
Crabbed old Marquis Mirabeau, the Friend of Men, sleeps sound. The Bailli
Mirabeau, worthy uncle, will soon die forlorn, alone. Barrel-Mirabeau,
already gone across the Rhine, his Regiment of Emigrants will drive nigh
desperate. 'Barrel-Mirabeau,' says a biographer of his, 'went indignantly
across the Rhine, and drilled Emigrant Regiments. But as he sat one
morning in his tent, sour of stomach doubtless and of heart, meditating in
Tartarean humour on the turn things took, a certain Captain or Subaltern
demanded admittance on business. Such Captain is refused; he again
demands, with refusal; and then again, till Colonel Viscount Barrel-
Mirabeau, blazing up into a mere burning brandy barrel, clutches his sword,
and tumbles out on this canaille [rabble] of an intruder, — alas,
on the canaille of
an intruder's sword's point, who had drawn with swift dexterity; and dies,
and the Newspapers name it apoplexy and alarming accident.'
So die the Mirabeaus.
|
The Riquetti line soon expires.
|
|
New Mirabeaus one hears not of: the wild kindred, as we said, is gone out
with this its greatest. As families and kindreds sometimes do; producing,
after long ages of unnoted notability, some living quintescence of all the
qualities they had, to flame forth as a man world-noted; after whom they
rest as if exhausted; the sceptre passing to others. The chosen Last of
the Mirabeaus is gone; the chosen man of France is gone. It was he who
shook old France from its basis; and, as if with his single hand, has held
it toppling there, still unfallen. What things depended on that one man!
He is as a ship suddenly shivered on sunk rocks: much swims on the waste
waters, far from help.
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The revolution has run itself upon the rocks.
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The French Monarchy may now therefore be considered as, in all human
probability, lost; as struggling henceforth in blindness as well as
weakness, the last light of reasonable guidance having gone out. What
remains of resources their poor Majesties will waste still further, in
uncertain loitering and wavering. Mirabeau himself had to complain that
they only gave him half confidence, and always had some plan within his
plan. Had they fled frankly with him, to Rouen or anywhither, long ago!
They may fly now with chance immeasurably lessened; which will go on
lessening towards absolute zero. Decide, O Queen; poor Louis can decide
nothing: execute this Flight-project, or at least abandon it.
Correspondence with Bouillé there has been enough;
what profits consulting,
and hypothesis, while all around is in fierce activity of practice? The
Rustic sits waiting till the river run dry: alas with you it is not a
common river, but a Nile Inundation; snow melting in the unseen mountains;
till all, and you where you sit, be submerged.
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Mirabeau's death makes a successful flight much less likely, with the odds
decreasing by the day.
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Many things invite to flight. The voice of Journals invites; Royalist
Journals proudly hinting it as a threat, Patriot Journals rabidly
denouncing it as a terror. Mother Society, waxing more and more emphatic,
invites; — so emphatic that, as was prophesied, Lafayette and your limited
Patriots have ere long to branch off from her, and form themselves into
Feuillans?;
with infinite public controversy; the victory in which, doubtful
though it look, will remain with the unlimited Mother. Moreover, ever
since the Day of Poniards, we have seen unlimited Patriotism openly
equipping itself with arms. Citizens denied 'activity,' which is
facetiously made to signify a certain weight of purse, cannot buy blue
uniforms, and be Guardsmen; but man is greater than blue cloth; man can
fight, if need be, in multiform cloth, or even almost without cloth — as
Sansculotte. So Pikes continued to be hammered, whether those Dirks of
improved structure with barbs be 'meant for the West-India market,' or not
meant. Men beat, the wrong way, their ploughshares into swords. Is there
not what we may call an 'Austrian Committee,' Comité Autrichein,
sitting
daily and nightly in the Tuileries? Patriotism, by vision and suspicion,
knows it too well! If the King fly, will there not be Aristocrat-Austrian
Invasion; butchery, replacement of Feudalism; wars more than civil? The
hearts of men are saddened and maddened.
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There are many signs which should strongly suggest to the King that flight
is in order.
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Dissident Priests likewise give trouble enough. Expelled from their Parish
Churches, where Constitutional Priests, elected by the Public, have
replaced them, these unhappy persons resort to Convents of Nuns, or other
such receptacles; and there, on Sabbath, collecting assemblages of
Anti-Constitutional individuals, who have grown devout all on a sudden,
(Toulongeon, i. 262.)
they worship or pretend to worship in their strait-laced
contumacious manner; to the scandal of Patriotism. Dissident
Priests, passing along with their sacred wafer for the dying, seem wishful
to be massacred in the streets; wherein Patriotism will not gratify them.
Slighter palm of martyrdom, however, shall not be denied: martyrdom not of
massacre, yet of fustigation [cudgeling].
At the refractory places of worship, Patriot
men appear; Patriot women with strong hazel wands, which they apply. Shut
thy eyes, O Reader; see not this misery, peculiar to these later times, — of
martyrdom without sincerity, with only cant and contumacy! A dead Catholic
Church is not allowed to lie dead; no, it is galvanised into the
detestablest death-life; whereat Humanity, we say, shuts its eyes. For the
Patriot women take their hazel wands, and fustigate, amid laughter of
bystanders, with alacrity: broad bottom of Priests; alas, Nuns too
reversed, and cotillons retroussés [petticoats turned up]!
The National Guard does what it can:
Municipality 'invokes the Principles of Toleration;' grants Dissident
worshippers the Church of the Théatins; promising protection.
But it is to
no purpose: at the door of that Théatins Church,
appears a Placard, and
suspended atop, like Plebeian Consular fasces, — a Bundle of Rods! The
Principles of Toleration must do the best they may: but no Dissident man
shall worship contumaciously; there is a Plebiscitum to that effect;
which,
though unspoken, is like the laws of the Medes and Persians [i.e. it cannot
be revoked]. Dissident
contumacious Priests ought not to be harboured, even in private, by any
man: the Club of the Cordeliers openly denounces Majesty himself as doing
it. (Newspapers of April and June, 1791
(in Hist. Parl. ix. 449; x, 217).)
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Disharmony follows the expulsion of parish priests in favor of elected
constitutional ones. Some are beaten in the streets when they try to
exercise priestly duties.
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Many things invite to flight: but probably this thing above all others,
that it has become impossible! On the 15th of April, notice is given that
his Majesty, who has suffered much from catarrh lately, will enjoy the
Spring weather, for a few days, at Saint-Cloud. Out at Saint-Cloud?
Wishing to celebrate his Easter, his Pâques, or Pasch, there; with
refractory Anti-Constitutional Dissidents? — Wishing rather to make off for
Compiègne, and thence to the Frontiers? As were, in good sooth, perhaps
feasible, or would once have been; nothing but some two chasseurs
attending
you; chasseurs easily corrupted! It is a pleasant possibility, execute it
or not. Men say there are thirty thousand Chevaliers of the Poniard
lurking in the woods there: lurking in the woods, and thirty thousand, —
for the human Imagination is not fettered. But now, how easily might
these, dashing out on Lafayette, snatch off the Hereditary Representative;
and roll away with him, after the manner of a whirlblast, whither they
listed! — Enough, it were well the King did not go. Lafayette is forewarned
and forearmed: but, indeed, is the risk his only; or his and all France's?
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April 18, 1791.
The King proposes to go to St. Cloud for a rest at Easter. The request
is viewed with suspicion.
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Monday the eighteenth of April is come; the Easter Journey to Saint-Cloud
shall take effect. National Guard has got its orders; a First Division, as
Advanced Guard, has even marched, and probably arrived. His Majesty's
Maison-bouche?,
they say, is all busy stewing and frying at Saint-Cloud; the
King's Dinner not far from ready there. About one o'clock, the Royal
Carriage, with its eight royal blacks, shoots stately into the Place du
Carrousel; draws up to receive its royal burden. But hark! From the
neighbouring Church of Saint-Roch, the tocsin begins ding-donging. Is the
King stolen then; he is going; gone? Multitudes of persons crowd the
Carrousel: the Royal Carriage still stands there; — and, by Heaven's
strength, shall stand!
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A mob prevents the departure.
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Lafayette comes up, with aide-de-camps and oratory; pervading the groups:
"Taisez-vous [Go away]," answer the groups, "the King shall not go." Monsieur
appears, at an upper window: ten thousand voices bray and shriek, "Nous ne
voulons pas que le Roi parte [we do not want the King to go]."
Their Majesties have mounted. Crack go the
whips; but twenty Patriot arms have seized each of the eight bridles:
there is rearing, rocking, vociferation; not the smallest headway. In vain
does Lafayette fret, indignant; and perorate and strive: Patriots in the
passion of terror, bellow round the Royal Carriage; it is one bellowing sea
of Patriot terror run frantic. Will Royalty fly off towards Austria; like
a lit rocket, towards endless Conflagration of Civil War? Stop it, ye
Patriots, in the name of Heaven! Rude voices passionately apostrophise
Royalty itself.
Usher Campan?,
and other the like official persons,
pressing forward with help or advice, are clutched by the sashes, and
hurled and whirled, in a confused perilous manner; so that her Majesty has
to plead passionately from the carriage-window.
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The crowd resists the efforts of Lafayette to guide the carriage out.
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Order cannot be heard, cannot be followed; National Guards know not how to
act. Centre Grenadiers, of the Observatoire Battalion, are there; not on
duty; alas, in quasi-mutiny; speaking rude disobedient words; threatening
the mounted Guards with sharp shot if they hurt the people. Lafayette
mounts and dismounts; runs haranguing, panting; on the verge of despair.
For an hour and three-quarters; 'seven quarters of an hour,' by the
Tuileries Clock! Desperate Lafayette will open a passage, were it by the
cannon's mouth, if his Majesty will order. Their Majesties, counselled to
it by Royalist friends, by Patriot foes, dismount; and retire in, with
heavy indignant heart; giving up the enterprise. Maison-bouche may eat
that cooked dinner themselves; his Majesty shall not see Saint-Cloud this
day, — or any day. (Deux Amis, vi. c. 1;
Hist. Parl. ix. 407-14.)
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At last the King agrees to return to the Tuileries.
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The pathetic fable of imprisonment in one's own Palace has become a sad
fact, then? Majesty complains to Assembly; Municipality deliberates,
proposes to petition or address; Sections respond with sullen brevity of
negation. Lafayette flings down his Commission; appears in civic pepper-
and-salt frock; and cannot be flattered back again; — not in less than three
days; and by unheard-of entreaty; National Guards kneeling to him, and
declaring that it is not sycophancy, that they are free men kneeling here
to the Statue of Liberty. For the rest, those Centre Grenadiers of the
Observatoire are disbanded,—yet indeed are reinlisted, all but fourteen,
under a new name, and with new quarters. The King must keep his Easter in
Paris: meditating much on this singular posture of things: but as good as
determined now to fly from it, desire being whetted by difficulty.
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The effects of the St. Cloud incident are that Lafayette briefly resigns;
the fractious Guards are wrist-slapped; and Louis — finally — decides to
attempt escape.
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For above a year, ever since March 1790, it would seem, there has hovered a
project of Flight before the royal mind; and ever and anon has been
condensing itself into something like a purpose; but this or the other
difficulty always vaporised it again. It seems so full of risks, perhaps
of civil war itself; above all, it cannot be done without effort.
Somnolent laziness will not serve: to fly, if not in a leather vache,
one
must verily stir himself. Better to adopt that Constitution of theirs;
execute it so as to shew all men that it is inexecutable?
Better or not so
good; surely it is easier.
To all difficulties you need only say, There is
a lion in the path, behold your Constitution will not act! For a somnolent
person it requires no effort to counterfeit death, — as Dame de
Staël and
Friends of Liberty can see the King's Government long doing, faisant le
mort.
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Any chance to escape is limited by Louis' timidity and torpidity.
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Nay now, when desire whetted by difficulty has brought the matter to a
head, and the royal mind no longer halts between two, what can come of it?
Grant that poor Louis were safe with Bouillé, what on the whole could he
look for there? Exasperated Tickets of Entry answer, Much, all. But cold
Reason answers, Little almost nothing. Is not loyalty a law of Nature? ask
the Tickets of Entry. Is not love of your King, and even death for him,
the glory of all Frenchmen, — except these few Democrats? Let Democrat
Constitution-builders see what they will do without their Keystone; and
France rend its hair, having lost the Hereditary Representative!
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Even when he has motivation, Louis requires convincing.
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Thus will King Louis fly; one sees not reasonably towards what. As a
maltreated Boy, shall we say, who, having a Stepmother, rushes sulky into
the wide world; and will wring the paternal heart? — Poor Louis escapes from
known unsupportable evils, to an unknown mixture of good and evil, coloured
by Hope. He goes, as Rabelais did when dying, to seek a great May-be: je
vais chercher un grand Peut-etre! As not only the sulky Boy but the wise
grown Man is obliged to do, so often, in emergencies.
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And in the end it is uncertain whether he will fly or slink.
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For the rest, there is still no lack of stimulants, and stepdame
maltreatments, to keep one's resolution at the due pitch. Factious
disturbance ceases not: as indeed how can they, unless authoritatively
conjured, in a Revolt which is by nature bottomless? If the ceasing of
faction be the price of the King's somnolence, he may awake when he will,
and take wing.
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Given his lack of authority, nothing the King does will affect the course of
the revolution.
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Remark, in any case, what somersets and contortions a dead Catholicism is
making,—skilfully
galvanised[123]:
hideous, and even piteous, to behold!
Jurant and Dissident, with their shaved crowns, argue frothing everywhere;
or are ceasing to argue, and stripping for battle. In Paris was scourging
while need continued: contrariwise, in the Morbihan of Brittany, without
scourging, armed Peasants are up, roused by pulpit-drum, they know not why.
General
Dumouriez?,
who has got missioned thitherward, finds all in sour
heat of darkness; finds also that explanation and conciliation will still
do much. (Deux Amis, v. 410-21; Dumouriez, ii. c. 5.)
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Parallel to the question of royalty is that of the Church. Constitutional
clergy continue to clash with their replacements and to agitate for the
old religion.
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But again, consider this: that his Holiness, Pius Sixth, has seen good to
excommunicate Bishop
Talleyrand?!
Surely, we will say then, considering it,
there is no living or dead Church in the Earth that has not the
indubitablest right to excommunicate Talleyrand. Pope Pius has right and
might, in his way. But truly so likewise has Father Adam, ci-devant
Marquis
Saint-Huruge?,
in his way. Behold, therefore, on the Fourth of May,
in the Palais-Royal, a mixed loud-sounding multitude; in the middle of
whom, Father Adam, bull-voiced Saint-Huruge, in white hat, towers visible
and audible. With him, it is said, walks Journalist
Gorsas?,
walk many
others of the washed sort; for no authority will interfere. Pius Sixth,
with his plush and tiara, and power of the Keys, they bear aloft: of
natural size,—made of lath and combustible gum.
Royou?,
the King's Friend,
is borne too in effigy; with a pile of Newspaper King's-Friends,
condemned
numbers of the Ami-du-Roi; fit fuel of the sacrifice.
Speeches are spoken;
a judgment is held, a doom proclaimed, audible in bull-voice, towards the
four winds. And thus, amid great shouting, the holocaust is consummated,
under the summer sky; and our lath-and-gum Holiness, with the attendant
victims, mounts up in flame, and sinks down in ashes; a decomposed Pope:
and right or might, among all the parties, has better or worse accomplished
itself, as it could. (Hist. Parl. x. 99-102.)
But, on the whole,
reckoning from Martin Luther in the Marketplace of Wittenberg to Marquis
Saint-Huruge in this Palais-Royal of Paris, what a journey have we gone;
into what strange territories has it carried us! No Authority can now
interfere. Nay Religion herself, mourning for such things, may after all
ask, What have I to do with them?
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April 13, 1791, Talleyrand is excommunicated. A month later a small crowd
burns in effigy the Pope. Carlyle opines that such incidents are far
removed from the concerns of true religion.
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In such extraordinary manner does dead Catholicism somerset and caper,
skilfully galvanised. For, does the reader inquire into the subject-matter
of controversy in this case; what the difference between Orthodoxy or My-
doxy and Heterodoxy or Thy-doxy might here
be[124]?
My-doxy is that an august
National Assembly can equalize the extent of Bishopricks; that an equalized
Bishop, his Creed and Formularies being left quite as they were, can swear
Fidelity to King, Law and Nation, and so become a Constitutional Bishop.
Thy-doxy, if thou be Dissident, is that he cannot; but that he must become
an accursed thing. Human ill-nature needs but some
Homoiousian?
iota, or
even the pretence of one; and will flow copiously through the eye of a
needle: thus always must mortals go jargoning and fuming,
And, like the ancient Stoics in their porches
With fierce dispute maintain their churches.[126]
This Auto-da-fé [heretic-burning] of Saint-Huruge's was on the
Fourth of May, 1791.
Royalty
sees it; but says nothing.
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Religious schisms, even of the most trivial sort, are pernicious.
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Royalty, in fact, should, by this time, be far on with its preparations.
Unhappily much preparation is needful: could a Hereditary Representative
be carried in a
leather vache, how easy were it! But it is not so.
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Preparations for flight need made.
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New clothes are needed, as usual, in all Epic transactions, were it in the
grimmest iron ages; consider 'Queen Chrimhilde, with her sixty
semstresses,' in that iron Nibelungen Song!
No Queen can stir without new
clothes. Therefore, now, Dame
Campan?
whisks assiduous to this mantua-maker
and to that: and there is clipping of frocks and gowns, upper clothes and
under, great and small; such a clipping and sewing, as might have been
dispensed with. Moreover, her Majesty cannot go a step anywhither without
her Nécessaire; dear Nécessaire,
of inlaid ivory and rosewood; cunningly
devised; which holds perfumes, toilet-implements, infinite small queenlike
furnitures: Necessary to terrestrial life. Not without a cost of some
five hundred louis, of much precious time, and difficult hoodwinking which
does not blind, can this same Necessary of life be forwarded by the
Flanders Carriers,—never to get to hand.
(Campan, ii. c. 18.) All which,
you would say, augurs ill for the prospering of the enterprise. But the
whims of women and queens must be humoured.
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It is no easy thing to secretly remove a royal household.
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Bouillé, on his side, is making a fortified Camp at Montmédi; gathering
Royal-Allemand, and all manner of other German and true French Troops
thither, 'to watch the Austrians.' His Majesty will not cross the
Frontiers, unless on compulsion. Neither shall the Emigrants be much
employed, hateful as they are to all people.
(Bouillé, Memoires, ii. c.
10.) Nor shall old war-god Broglie have any hand in the business; but
solely our brave Bouillé; to whom, on the day of meeting,
a Marshal's Baton
shall be delivered, by a rescued King, amid the shouting of all the troops.
In the meanwhile, Paris being so suspicious, were it not perhaps good to
write your Foreign Ambassadors an ostensible Constitutional Letter;
desiring all Kings and men to take heed that King Louis loves the
Constitution, that he has voluntarily sworn, and does again swear, to
maintain the same, and will reckon those his enemies who affect to say
otherwise? Such a Constitutional circular is despatched by Couriers, is
communicated confidentially to the Assembly, and printed in all Newspapers;
with the finest effect.
(Moniteur, Seance du 23 Avril, 1791.) Simulation
and dissimulation mingle extensively in human affairs.
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Misdirections useful in the escape or its aftermath are begun.
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We observe, however, that Count
Fersen?
is often using his Ticket of Entry;
which surely he has clear right to do. A gallant Soldier and Swede,
devoted to this fair Queen; — as indeed the Highest Swede [King Gustav]
now is. Has not
King Gustav, famed fiery Chevalier du Nord, sworn himself,
by the old laws
of chivalry, her Knight? He will descend on fire-wings, of Swedish
musketry, and deliver her from these foul dragons, — if, alas, the
assassin's pistol intervene not!
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Fersen, the Swedish ambassador, is often seen at the Tuileries.
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But, in fact, Count Fersen does seem a likely young soldier, of alert
decisive ways: he circulates widely, seen, unseen; and has business on
hand. Also Colonel the Duke de Choiseul, nephew of
Choiseul?
the great, of
Choiseul the now deceased; he and Engineer Goguelat are passing and
repassing between Metz and the Tuileries; and Letters go in cipher, — one of
them, a most important one, hard to decipher; Fersen having ciphered it in
haste. (Choiseul, Relation du Depart de Louis XVI.
(Paris, 1822), p. 39.)
As for Duke de Villequier, he is gone ever since the Day of Poniards; but
his Apartment is useful for her Majesty.
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Things move forward between Felsen and the Queen.
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On the other side, poor Commandment Gouvion, watching at the Tuileries,
second in National Command, sees several things hard to interpret. It is
the same Gouvion who sat, long months ago, at the Townhall, gazing helpless
into that Insurrection of Women; motionless, as the brave stabled steed
when conflagration rises, till Usher Maillard snatched his drum. Sincerer
Patriot there is not; but many a shiftier. He, if Dame Campan gossip
credibly, is paying some similitude of love-court to a certain false
Chambermaid of the Palace, who betrays much to him: the
Nécessaire, the
clothes, the packing of the jewels,
(Campan, ii. 141.) — could he understand
it when betrayed. Helpless Gouvion gazes with sincere glassy eyes into it;
stirs up his sentries to vigilence; walks restless to and fro; and hopes
the best.
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The official guard of the Tuileries is Gouvion, not a very insightful or
decisive man.
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But, on the whole, one finds that, in the second week of June, Colonel de
Choiseul is privately in Paris; having come 'to see his children.' Also
that Fersen has got a stupendous new Coach built, of the kind named
Berline; done by the first artists; according to a model: they bring it
home to him, in Choiseul's presence; the two friends take a proof-drive in
it, along the streets; in meditative mood; then send it up to 'Madame
Sullivan's, in the Rue de Clichy,' far North, to wait there till wanted.
Apparently a certain Russian Baroness de Korff, with Waiting-woman, Valet,
and two Children, will travel homewards with some state: in whom these
young military gentlemen take interest. A Passport has been procured for
her; and much assistance shewn, with Coach-builders and such like; — so
helpful polite are young military men. Fersen has likewise purchased a
Chaise fit for two, at least for two waiting-maids; further, certain
necessary horses: one would say, he is himself quitting France, not without
outlay? We observe finally that their Majesties, Heaven willing, will
assist at Corpus-Christi Day, this blessed Summer Solstice, in Assumption
Church, here at Paris, to the joy of all the world. For which same day,
moreover, brave Bouillé, at Metz, as we find, has invited a party of
friends to dinner; but indeed is gone from home, in the interim, over to
Montmédi.
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Early June, 1791: the coach and a ruse are in place for the flight.
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These are of the Phenomena, or visual Appearances, of this wide-working
terrestrial world: which truly is all phenomenal, what they call spectral;
and never rests at any moment; one never at any moment can know why.
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The preparations escape notice.
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On Monday night, the Twentieth of June 1791, about eleven o'clock, there is
many a hackney-coach, and glass-coach (carrosse de remise),
still rumbling,
or at rest, on the streets of Paris. But of all Glass-coaches, we
recommend this to thee, O Reader, which stands drawn up, in the Rue de
l'Echelle, hard by the Carrousel and outgate of the Tuileries; in the Rue
de l'Echelle that then was; 'opposite Ronsin the saddler's door,' as if
waiting for a fare there! Not long does it wait: a hooded Dame, with two
hooded Children has issued from Villequier's door, where no sentry walks,
into the Tuileries Court-of-Princes; into the Carrousel; into the Rue de
l'Echelle; where the Glass-coachman readily admits them; and again waits.
Not long; another Dame, likewise hooded or shrouded, leaning on a servant,
issues in the same manner, by the Glass-coachman, cheerfully admitted.
Whither go, so many Dames? 'Tis His Majesty's Couchée,
Majesty just gone
to bed, and all the Palace-world is retiring home. But the Glass-coachman
still waits; his fare seemingly incomplete.
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20 June 1791. Mme. de Tourzel, the royal governess; her charges (both dressed
as girls); and the Princess Elizabeth take
coach outside the Tuileries.
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By and by, we note a thickset Individual, in round hat and peruke, arm-and-
arm with some servant, seemingly of the Runner or Courier sort; he also
issues through Villequier's door; starts a shoebuckle as he passes one of
the sentries, stoops down to clasp it again; is however, by the
Glass-coachman, still more cheerfully admitted.
And now, is his fare complete?
Not yet; the Glass-coachman still waits. — Alas! and the false Chambermaid
has warned Gouvion that she thinks the Royal Family will fly this very
night; and Gouvion distrusting his own glazed eyes, has sent express for
Lafayette; and Lafayette's Carriage, flaring with lights, rolls this moment
through the inner Arch of the Carrousel, — where a Lady shaded in broad
gypsy-hat, and leaning on the arm of a servant, also of the Runner or
Courier sort, stands aside to let it pass, and has even the whim to touch a
spoke of it with her badine, — light little magic rod which she calls
badine, such as the Beautiful then wore. The flare of Lafayette's
Carriage, rolls past: all is found quiet in the Court-of-Princes; sentries
at their post; Majesties' Apartments closed in smooth rest. Your false
Chambermaid must have been mistaken? Watch thou, Gouvion, with
Argus'?
vigilance; for, of a truth, treachery is within these walls.
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A bit later, the king exits to the coach (having found himself lost trying
to find the unguarded door). Lafayette, reacting to intelligence that the
king would try to escape tonight, rushes to the palace.
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But where is the Lady that stood aside in gypsy hat, and touched the
wheel-spoke with her badine?
O Reader, that Lady that touched the wheel-spoke
was the Queen of France! She has issued safe through that inner Arch, into
the Carrousel itself; but not into the Rue de l'Echelle. Flurried by the
rattle and rencounter [chance encounter],
she took the right hand not the left; neither she
nor her Courier knows Paris; he indeed is no Courier, but a loyal stupid
ci-devant Bodyguard disguised as one.
They are off, quite wrong, over the
Pont Royal and River; roaming disconsolate in the Rue du Bac; far from the
Glass-coachman, who still waits. Waits, with flutter of heart; with
thoughts — which he must button close up, under his
jarvie-surtout [cabbie's coat]!
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The Queen, distracted by her near-encounter with Lafayette, makes a wrong
turn and becomes lost. The "cabbie", Fersen, sweats it out.
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Midnight clangs from all the City-steeples; one precious hour has been
spent so; most mortals are asleep. The Glass-coachman waits; and what
mood! A brother jarvie drives up, enters into conversation; is answered
cheerfully in jarvie dialect: the brothers of the whip exchange a pinch of
snuff; (Weber, ii. 340-2; Choiseul, p. 44-56.)
decline drinking together;
and part with good night. Be the Heavens blest! here at length is the
Queen-lady, in gypsy-hat; safe after perils; who has had to inquire her
way. She too is admitted; her Courier jumps aloft, as the other, who is
also a disguised Bodyguard, has done: and now, O Glass-coachman of a
thousand, — Count Fersen, for the Reader sees it is thou, — drive!
|
More than an hour behind schedule, the cab departs the Tuileries.
|
|
Dust shall not stick to the hoofs of Fersen: crack! crack! the Glass-coach
rattles, and every soul breathes lighter. But is Fersen on the right road?
Northeastward, to the Barrier of Saint-Martin and Metz Highway, thither
were we bound: and lo, he drives right Northward! The royal Individual,
in round hat and peruke, sits astonished; but right or wrong, there is no
remedy. Crack, crack, we go incessant, through the slumbering City.
Seldom, since Paris rose out of mud, or the Longhaired Kings went in
Bullock-carts, was there such a drive. Mortals on each hand of you, close
by, stretched out horizontal, dormant; and we alive and quaking! Crack,
crack, through the Rue de Grammont; across the Boulevard; up the Rue de la
Chaussée d'Antin, — these windows, all silent, of Number 42, were
Mirabeau's. Towards the Barrier not of Saint-Martin, but of Clichy on the
utmost North! Patience, ye royal Individuals; Fersen understands what he
is about. Passing up the Rue de Clichy, he alights for one moment at
Madame Sullivan's: "Did Count Fersen's Coachman get the Baroness de
Korff's new Berline?" — "Gone with it an hour-and-half ago," grumbles
responsive the drowsy Porter. — "C'est bien." Yes, it is well; — though had
not such hour-and half been lost, it were still better. Forth therefore, O
Fersen, fast, by the Barrier de Clichy; then Eastward along the Outward
Boulevard, what horses and whipcord can do!
|
Fersen races off to a rendevouz with the travelling-coach that will
take the royal family east.
|
|
Thus Fersen drives, through the ambrosial night. Sleeping Paris is now all
on the right hand of him; silent except for some snoring hum; and now he is
Eastward as far as the Barrier de Saint-Martin; looking earnestly for
Baroness de Korff's Berline. This Heaven's Berline he at length does
descry, drawn up with its six horses, his own German Coachman waiting on
the box. Right, thou good German: now haste, whither thou knowest! — And
as for us of the Glass-coach, haste too, O haste; much time is already
lost! The august Glass-coach fare, six Insides, hastily packs itself into
the new Berline; two Bodyguard Couriers behind. The Glass-coach itself is
turned adrift, its head towards the City; to wander whither it lists, — and
be found next morning tumbled in a ditch. But Fersen is on the new box,
with its brave new hammer-cloths [cloth covering the coach-box];
flourishing his whip; he bolts forward
towards Bondy. There a third and final Bodyguard Courier of ours ought
surely to be, with post-horses ready-ordered. There likewise ought that
purchased Chaise, with the two Waiting-maids and their bandboxes to be;
whom also her Majesty could not travel without. Swift, thou deft Fersen,
and may the Heavens turn it well!
|
Transferred to the larger carriage, the entourage races towards Bondy
for a change of horses and to meet others.
|
|
Once more, by Heaven's blessing, it is all well. Here is the sleeping
Hamlet of Bondy; Chaise with Waiting-women; horses all ready, and
postilions with their churn-boots, impatient in the dewy dawn. Brief
harnessing done, the postilions/[127]
with their churn-boots vault into the
saddles; brandish circularly their little noisy whips. Fersen, under his
jarvie-surtout, bends in lowly silent reverence of adieu; royal hands wave
speechless in expressible response; Baroness de Korff's Berline, with the
Royalty of France, bounds off: for ever, as it proved. Deft Fersen dashes
obliquely Northward, through the country, towards Bougret; gains Bougret,
finds his German Coachman and chariot waiting there; cracks off, and drives
undiscovered into unknown space. A deft active man, we say; what he
undertook to do is nimbly and successfully done.
|
Having guided the escape through the first stage, Fersen departs.
|
|
And so the Royalty of France is actually fled? This precious night, the
shortest of the year, it flies and drives! Baroness de Korff is, at
bottom, Dame de Tourzel, Governess of the Royal Children: she who came
hooded with the two hooded little ones; little Dauphin; little Madame
Royale, known long afterwards as Duchess d'Angouleme. Baroness de Korff's
Waiting-maid is the Queen in gypsy-hat. The royal Individual in round hat
and peruke, he is Valet, for the time being. That other hooded Dame,
styled Travelling-companion,
is kind Sister Elizabeth; she had sworn, long
since, when the Insurrection of Women was, that only death should part her
and them. And so they rush there, not too impetuously, through the Wood of
Bondy: — over a Rubicon in their own and France's History.
|
|
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Great; though the future is all vague! If we reach Bouillé?
If we do not
reach him? O Louis! and this all round thee is the great slumbering Earth
(and overhead, the great watchful Heaven); the slumbering Wood of Bondy,—
where Longhaired Childeric Donothing[128]
was struck through with iron;
(Hénault, Abrégé Chronologique, p. 36.)
not unreasonably. These peaked
stone-towers are Raincy; towers of wicked d'Orléans.
All slumbers save the
multiplex rustle of our new Berline. Loose-skirted scarecrow of an
Herb-merchant, with his ass and early greens, toilsomely plodding, seems the
only creature we meet. But right ahead the great North-East sends up
evermore his gray brindled dawn: from dewy branch, birds here and there,
with short deep warble, salute the coming Sun. Stars fade out, and
Galaxies; Street-lamps of the City of God. The Universe, O my brothers, is
flinging wide its portals for the Levée of the GREAT HIGH KING.
Thou, poor
King Louis, farest nevertheless, as mortals do, towards Orient lands of
Hope; and the Tuileries with its Levées,
and France and the Earth itself,
is but a larger kind of doghutch, — occasionally going rabid.
|
On the morning of June 21, it seems possible the escape will succeed.
|
|
But in Paris, at six in the morning; when some Patriot Deputy, warned by a
billet [letter], awoke Lafayette, and they went to the Tuileries? —
Imagination may
paint, but words cannot, the surprise of Lafayette; or with what
bewilderment helpless Gouvion rolled glassy
Argus's?
eyes, discerning now
that his false Chambermaid told true!
|
The King is gone only a few hours when the alarm is raised.
|
|
However, it is to be recorded that Paris, thanks to an august National
Assembly, did, on this seeming doomsday, surpass itself. Never, according
to Historian eye-witnesses, was there seen such an 'imposing attitude.'
(Deux Amis, vi. 67-178; Toulongeon, ii. 1-38;
Camille, Prudhomme and Editors (in Hist. Parl. x. 240-4.)
Sections all 'in permanence;' our
Townhall, too, having first, about ten o'clock, fired three solemn
alarm-cannons: above all, our National Assembly! National Assembly, likewise
permanent, decides what is needful; with unanimous consent, for the
Côté
Droit sits dumb, afraid of the Lanterne. Decides with a calm promptitude,
which rises towards the sublime. One must needs vote, for the thing is
self-evident, that his Majesty has been abducted, or spirited away,
'enlevé,' by some person or persons unknown:
in which case, what will the
Constitution have us do? Let us return to first principles, as we always
say; "revenons aux principes."
|
All of the representative bodies go into continuous session.
|
|
By first or by second principles, much is promptly decided: Ministers are
sent for, instructed how to continue their functions; Lafayette is
examined; and Gouvion, who gives a most helpless account, the best he can.
Letters are found written: one Letter, of immense magnitude; all in his
Majesty's hand, and evidently of his Majesty's own composition; addressed
to the National Assembly. It details, with earnestness, with a childlike
simplicity, what woes his Majesty has suffered. Woes great and small: A
Necker seen applauded, a Majesty not; then insurrection; want of due cash
in Civil List; general want of cash, furniture and order; anarchy
everywhere; Deficit never yet, in the smallest, 'choked or comble: '—
wherefore in brief His Majesty has retired towards a Place of Liberty; and,
leaving Sanctions, Federation, and what Oaths there may be, to shift for
themselves, does now refer — to what, thinks an august Assembly? To that
'Declaration of the Twenty-third of June,' with its "Seul il fera,
He alone
will make his People happy." As if that were not buried, deep enough,
under two irrevocable Twelvemonths, and the wreck and rubbish of a whole
Feudal World! This strange autograph Letter the National Assembly decides
on printing; on transmitting to the Eighty-three Departments, with exegetic
commentary, short but pithy. Commissioners also shall go forth on all
sides; the People be exhorted; the Armies be increased; care taken that the
Commonweal suffer no damage. — And now, with a sublime air of calmness, nay
of indifference, we 'pass to the order of the day!'
|
The king's farewell letter, giving the reasons for his flight, is widely
published. Beyond that, the National Assembly just goes on about its
business.
|
|
By such sublime calmness, the terror of the People is calmed. These
gleaming Pike forests, which bristled fateful in the early sun, disappear
again; the far-sounding Street-orators cease, or spout milder. We are to
have a civil war; let us have it then. The King is gone; but National
Assembly, but France and we remain. The People also takes a great
attitude; the People also is calm; motionless as a couchant lion. With but
a few broolings, some waggings of the tail; to shew what it will do!
Cazalès,?
for instance, was beset by street-groups, and cries of Lanterne;
but National Patrols easily delivered him. Likewise all King's effigies
and statues, at least stucco ones, get abolished. Even King's names; the
word Roi fades suddenly out of all shop-signs; the Royal Bengal Tiger
itself, on the Boulevards, becomes the National Bengal one, Tigre
National. (Walpoliana.)
|
There are overt signs of anti-monarchical sentiment, but no large-scale
unrest.
|
|
How great is a calm couchant [at rest but alert] People!
On the morrow, men will say to one
another: "We have no King, yet we slept sound enough." On the morrow,
fervent Achille de
Châtelet?,
and Thomas Paine the rebellious Needleman,
shall have the walls of Paris profusely plastered with their Placard;
announcing that there must be a Republic!
(Dumont,c. 16.) — Need we add
that Lafayette too, though at first menaced by Pikes, has taken a great
attitude, or indeed the greatest of all? Scouts and Aides-de-camp fly
forth, vague, in quest and pursuit; young
Romœuf?
towards Valenciennes,
though with small hope.
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Lafayette, of course, is vexed. He sends pursuers in all directions.
|
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Thus Paris; sublimely calmed, in its bereavement. But from the Messageries
Royales, in all Mail-bags, radiates forth far-darting the electric news:
Our Hereditary Representative is flown. Laugh, black Royalists: yet be it
in your sleeve only; lest Patriotism notice, and waxing frantic, lower the
Lanterne! In Paris alone is a sublime National Assembly with its calmness;
truly, other places must take it as they can: with open mouth and eyes;
with panic cackling, with wrath, with conjecture. How each one of those
dull leathern Diligences, with its leathern bag and 'The King is fled,'
furrows up smooth France as it goes; through town and hamlet, ruffles the
smooth public mind into quivering agitation of death-terror; then lumbers
on, as if nothing had happened! Along all highways; towards the utmost
borders; till all France is ruffled, — roughened up (metaphorically
speaking) into one enormous, desperate-minded, red-guggling Turkey Cock!
|
The news of the flight spreads quickly, and the country-side does not
take it as calmly as does Paris.
|
|
For example, it is under cloud of night that the leathern Monster reaches
Nantes; deep sunk in sleep. The word spoken rouses all Patriot men:
General Dumouriez, enveloped in roquelaures[long cloaks],
has to descend from his
bedroom; finds the street covered with 'four or five thousand citizens in
their shirts.' (Dumouriez, Memoires, ii. 109.)
Here and there a faint
farthing rushlight, hastily kindled; and so many swart-featured haggard
faces, with nightcaps pushed back; and the more or less flowing drapery of
night-shirt: open-mouthed till the General say his word! And overhead, as
always, the Great Bear is turning so quiet round Boötes; steady,
indifferent as the leathern Diligence itself. Take comfort, ye men of
Nantes: Boötes and the steady Bear are turning; ancient Atlantic still
sends his brine, loud-billowing, up your Loire-stream; brandy shall be hot
in the stomach: this is not the Last of the Days, but one before the
Last. — The fools! If they knew what was doing, in these very instants,
also by candle-light, in the far North-East!
|
Carlyle asserts that news of the flight reached Britanny while it was
still in progress. This is unlikely.
|
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Perhaps we may say the most terrified man in Paris or France is — who thinks
the Reader? — seagreen Robespierre. Double paleness, with the shadow of
gibbets and halters, overcasts the seagreen features: it is too clear to
him that there is to be 'a Saint-Bartholomew of Patriots,' that in
four-and-twenty hours he will not be in life.
These horrid anticipations of the
soul he is heard uttering at Pétion's; by a notable witness. By Madame
Roland?,
namely; her whom we saw, last year, radiant at the Lyons
Federation! These four months, the Rolands have been in Paris; arranging
with Assembly Committees the Municipal affairs of Lyons, affairs all sunk
in debt; — communing, the while, as was most natural, with the best Patriots
to be found here, with our Brissots, Pétions, Buzots, Robespierres; who
were wont to come to us, says the fair Hostess, four evenings in the week.
They, running about, busier than ever this day, would fain have comforted
the seagreen man: spake of Achille du Chátelet's Placard;
of a Journal to
be called The Republican; of preparing men's minds for a Republic. "A
Republic?" said the Seagreen, with one of his dry husky unsportful laughs,
"What is that?" (Madame Roland, ii. 70.)
O seagreen Incorruptible, thou
shalt see!
|
Carlyle also claims that the flight made Robespierre fear for his life.
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But scouts all this while and aide-de-camps, have flown forth faster than
the leathern Diligences. Young Romœuf, as we said, was off early towards
Valenciennes: distracted Villagers seize him, as a traitor with a finger
of his own in the plot; drag him back to the Townhall; to the National
Assembly, which speedily grants a new passport. Nay now, that same
scarecrow of an Herb-merchant with his ass has bethought him of the grand
new Berline seen in the Wood of Bondy; and delivered evidence of it:
(Moniteur, etc. (in Hist. Parl. x. 244-313.))
Romœuf, furnished with new
passport, is sent forth with double speed on a hopefuller track; by Bondy,
Claye, and Chalons, towards Metz, to track the new Berline; and gallops
à franc étrier [at full speed].
|
A suspicious carriage has been seen on the Metz road.
|
|
Miserable new Berline! Why could not Royalty go in some old Berline
similar to that of other men? Flying for life, one does not stickle about
his vehicle.
Monsieur?,
in a commonplace travelling-carriage is off
Northwards; Madame, his Princess, in another, with variation of route:
they cross one another while changing horses, without look of recognition;
and reach Flanders, no man questioning them. Precisely in the same manner,
beautiful Princess de
Lamballe?
set off, about the same hour; and will reach
England safe: — would she had continued there! The beautiful, the good, but
the unfortunate; reserved for a frightful end!
|
A brother of the King and a friend of the Queen managed to escape deftly.
The King was weighed down by luggage and a gaudy new coach.
|
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All runs along, unmolested, speedy, except only the new Berline. Huge
leathern vehicle; — huge Argosy, let us say, or Acapulco-ship; with its
heavy stern-boat of Chaise-and-pair; with its three yellow Pilot-boats of
mounted Bodyguard Couriers, rocking aimless round it and ahead of it, to
bewilder, not to guide! It lumbers along, lurchingly with stress, at a
snail's pace; noted of all the world. The Bodyguard Couriers, in their
yellow liveries, go prancing and clattering; loyal but stupid; unacquainted
with all things. Stoppages occur; and breakages to be repaired at Etoges.
King Louis too will dismount, will walk up hills, and enjoy the blessed
sunshine: — with eleven horses and double drink money, and all furtherances
of Nature and Art, it will be found that Royalty, flying for life,
accomplishes Sixty-nine miles in Twenty-two incessant hours. Slow Royalty!
And yet not a minute of these hours but is precious: on minutes hang the
destinies of Royalty now.
|
The royal coach is creeping along, averaging a foot pace.
|
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Readers, therefore, can judge in what humour Duke de Choiseul might stand
waiting, in the Village of Pont-de-Sommevelle, some leagues beyond Chalons,
hour after hour, now when the day bends visibly westward. Choiseul drove
out of Paris, in all privity, ten hours before their Majesties' fixed time;
his Hussars, led by Engineer Goguelat, are here duly, come 'to escort a
Treasure that is expected:' but, hour after hour, is no Baroness de
Korff's Berline. Indeed, over all that North-east Region, on the skirts of
Champagne and of Lorraine, where the Great Road runs, the agitation is
considerable. For all along, from this Pont-de-Sommevelle Northeastward as
far as Montmédi, at Post-villages and Towns, escorts of Hussars and
Dragoons do lounge waiting: a train or chain of Military Escorts; at the
Montmédi end of it our brave Bouillé:
an electric thunder-chain; which the
invisible Bouillé, like a Father Jove, holds in his hand — for wise
purposes! Brave Bouillé has done what man could; has spread out his
electric thunder-chain of Military Escorts, onwards to the threshold of
Chalons: it waits but for the new Korff Berline; to receive it, escort it,
and, if need be, bear it off in whirlwind of military fire. They lie and
lounge there, we say, these fierce Troopers; from Montmédi and Stenai,
through Clermont, Sainte-Menehould to utmost Pont-de-Sommevelle, in all
Post-villages; for the route shall avoid Verdun and great Towns: they
loiter impatient 'till the Treasure arrive.'
|
They are not yet near the troops Bouillé has dispatched to escort them.
|
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Judge what a day this is for brave Bouillé:
perhaps the first day of a new
glorious life; surely the last day of the old! Also, and indeed still
more, what a day, beautiful and terrible, for your young full-blooded
Captains: your Dandoins, Comte de Damas, Duke de Choiseul, Engineer
Goguelat, and the like; entrusted with the secret! — Alas, the day bends
ever more westward; and no Korff Berline comes to sight. It is four hours
beyond the time, and still no Berline. In all Village-streets, Royalist
Captains go lounging, looking often Paris-ward; with face of unconcern,
with heart full of black care: rigorous Quartermasters can hardly keep the
private dragoons from cafés and dramshops.
(Declaration du Sieur La Gache
du Regiment Royal-Dragoons (in Choiseul, pp. 125-39.) Dawn on our
bewilderment, thou new Berline; dawn on us, thou Sun-chariot of a new
Berline, with the destinies of France!
|
Events are now running at least 4 hours behind schedule.
|
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It was of His Majesty's ordering, this military array of Escorts: a thing
solacing the Royal imagination with a look of security and rescue; yet, in
reality, creating only alarm, and where there was otherwise no danger,
danger without end. For each Patriot, in these Post-villages, asks
naturally: This clatter of cavalry, and marching and lounging of troops,
what means it? To escort a Treasure? Why escort, when no Patriot will
steal from the Nation; or where is your Treasure? — There has been such
marching and counter-marching: for it is another fatality, that certain of
these Military Escorts came out so early as yesterday; the Nineteenth not
the Twentieth of the month being the day first appointed, which her
Majesty, for some necessity or other, saw good to alter. And now consider
the suspicious nature of Patriotism; suspicious, above all, of
Bouillé the
Aristocrat; and how the sour doubting humour has had leave to accumulate
and exacerbate for four-and-twenty hours!
|
The military escorts waiting the King arouse suspicion among the frontier
villagers because they are mostly mercenary troops.
|
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At Pont-de-Sommevelle, these Forty foreign Hussars of Goguelat and Duke
Choiseul are becoming an unspeakable mystery to all men. They lounged long
enough, already, at Sainte-Menehould; lounged and loitered till our
National Volunteers there, all risen into hot wrath of doubt, 'demanded
three hundred fusils?
of their Townhall,' and got them. At which same
moment too, as it chanced, our Captain Dandoins was just coming in, from
Clermont with his troop, at the other end of the Village. A fresh troop;
alarming enough; though happily they are only Dragoons and French! So that
Goguelat with his Hussars had to ride, and even to do it fast; till here at
Pont-de-Sommevelle, where Choiseul lay waiting, he found resting-place.
Resting-place, as on burning marle. For the rumour of him flies abroad;
and men run to and fro in fright and anger: Chalons sends forth
exploratory pickets of National Volunteers towards this hand; which meet
exploratory pickets, coming from Sainte-Menehould, on that. What is it, ye
whiskered Hussars, men of foreign guttural speech; in the name of Heaven,
what is it that brings you? A Treasure? — exploratory pickets shake their
heads. The hungry Peasants, however, know too well what Treasure it is:
Military seizure for rents, feudalities; which no Bailiff could make us
pay! This they know; — and set to jingling their Parish-bell by way of
tocsin; with rapid effect! Choiseul and Goguelat, if the whole country is
not to take fire, must needs, be there Berline, be there no Berline, saddle
and ride.
|
Local reserve units form up and the waiting mercenaries are closely observed
and questioned. Choiseul and Goguelat, the captains waiting at
Pont de Somme-Vesle, decide to move out. The King's carriage arrived there
at about 6:30.
|
|
They mount; and this Parish tocsin happily ceases. They ride slowly
Eastward, towards Sainte-Menehould; still hoping the Sun-Chariot of a
Berline may overtake them. Ah me, no Berline! And near now is that
Sainte-Menehould, which expelled us in the morning, with its 'three hundred
National fusils;' which looks, belike, not too lovingly on Captain Dandoins
and his fresh Dragoons, though only French; — which, in a word, one dare not
enter the second time, under pain of explosion! With rather heavy heart,
our Hussar Party strikes off to the left; through byways, through pathless
hills and woods, they, avoiding Sainte-Menehould and all places which have
seen them heretofore, will make direct for the distant Village of Varennes.
It is probable they will have a rough evening-ride.
|
So the main body of the escort will not be available to meet the king at
Pont de Somme-Vesle.
|
|
This first military post, therefore, in the long thunder-chain, has gone
off with no effect; or with worse, and your chain threatens to entangle
itself! — The Great Road, however, is got hushed again into a kind of
quietude, though one of the wakefullest. Indolent Dragoons cannot, by any
Quartermaster, be kept altogether from the dramshop; where Patriots drink,
and will even treat, eager enough for news. Captains, in a state near
distraction, beat the dusky highway, with a face of indifference; and no
Sun-Chariot appears. Why lingers it? Incredible, that with eleven horses
and such yellow Couriers and furtherances, its rate should be under the
weightiest dray-rate, some three miles an hour! Alas, one knows not
whether it ever even got out of Paris; — and yet also one knows not whether,
this very moment, it is not at the Village-end! One's heart flutters on
the verge of unutterabilities.
|
The uncertainty weighs on the escorts, and every moment is more dangerous.
|
|
In this manner, however, has the Day bent downwards. Wearied mortals are
creeping home from their field-labour; the village-artisan eats with relish
his supper of herbs, or has strolled forth to the village-street for a
sweet mouthful of air and human news. Still summer-eventide everywhere!
The great Sun hangs flaming on the utmost North-West; for it is his longest
day this year. The hill-tops rejoicing will ere long be at their ruddiest,
and blush Good-night. The thrush, in green dells, on long-shadowed leafy
spray, pours gushing his glad serenade, to the babble of brooks grown
audibler; silence is stealing over the Earth. Your dusty Mill of Valmy, as
all other mills and drudgeries, may furl its canvass, and cease swashing
and circling. The swenkt [swinging] grinders in this Treadmill of an Earth
have ground out another Day; and lounge there, as we say, in village-groups;
movable, or ranked on social stone-seats; (Rapport de M. Remy
(in Choiseul, p. 143.)) their children, mischievous imps,
sporting about their feet.
Unnotable hum of sweet human gossip rises from this Village of
Sainte-Menehould, as from all other villages.
Gossip mostly sweet, unnotable; for
the very Dragoons are French and gallant; nor as yet has the
Paris-and-Verdun Diligence, with its leathern bag, rumbled in,
to terrify the minds of men.
|
It is just another summer evening in Sainte Menehould.
|
|
One figure nevertheless we do note at the last door of the Village: that
figure in loose-flowing nightgown, of Jean Baptiste Drouet, Master of the
Post here. An acrid choleric man, rather dangerous-looking; still in the
prime of life, though he has served, in his time as a Condé Dragoon.
This day from an early hour, Drouet got his choler [bile] stirred,
and has been kept
fretting. Hussar Goguelat in the morning saw good, by way of thrift, to
bargain with his own Innkeeper, not with Drouet regular
Maître de Poste,
about some gig-horse for the sending back of his gig [one-horse carriage];
which thing Drouet
perceiving came over in red ire, menacing the Inn-keeper, and would not be
appeased. Wholly an unsatisfactory day. For Drouet is an acrid Patriot
too, was at the Paris Feast of Pikes:
and what do these Bouillé Soldiers
mean? Hussars, with their gig, and a vengeance to it! — have hardly been
thrust out, when Dandoins and his fresh Dragoons arrive from Clermont, and
stroll. For what purpose? Choleric Drouet steps out and steps in, with
long-flowing nightgown; looking abroad, with that sharpness of faculty
which stirred choler gives to man.
|
Droet, the postmaster (actually the son of the postmaster) is irrascible and
observant.
|
|
On the other hand, mark Captain Dandoins on the street of that same
Village; sauntering with a face of indifference, a heart eaten of black
care! For no Korff Berline makes its appearance. The great Sun flames
broader towards setting: one's heart flutters on the verge of dread
unutterabilities.
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Dandoins is consumed with worry.
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By Heaven! Here is the yellow Bodyguard Courier; spurring fast, in the
ruddy evening light! Steady, O Dandoins, stand with inscrutable
indifferent face; though the yellow blockhead spurs past the Post-house;
inquires to find it; and stirs the Village, all delighted with his fine
livery. — Lumbering along with its mountains of bandboxes, and Chaise
behind, the Korff Berline rolls in; huge Acapulco-ship with its Cockboat,
having got thus far. The eyes of the Villagers look enlightened, as such
eyes do when a coach-transit, which is an event, occurs for them.
Strolling Dragoons respectfully, so fine are the yellow liveries, bring
hand to helmet; and a lady in gipsy-hat responds with a grace peculiar to
her. (Declaration de la Gache (in Choiseul ubi supra.)
Dandoins stands
with folded arms, and what look of indifference and disdainful garrison-air
a man can, while the heart is like leaping out of him. Curled disdainful
moustachio; careless glance, — which however surveys the Village-groups, and
does not like them. With his eye he bespeaks the yellow Courier. Be
quick, be quick! Thick-headed Yellow cannot understand the eye; comes up
mumbling, to ask in words: seen of the Village!
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The royal family finally arrives in Sainte Menehould, still 10 miles
from Clermont and 20 from Varennes, at 8:00.
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Nor is Post-master Drouet unobservant, all this while; but steps out and
steps in, with his long-flowing nightgown, in the level sunlight; prying
into several things. When a man's faculties, at the right time, are
sharpened by choler, it may lead to much. That Lady in slouched gypsy-hat,
though sitting back in the Carriage, does she not resemble some one we have
seen, some time; — at the Feast of Pikes, or elsewhere? And this
Grosse-Tête [fat head] in round hat and peruke, which,
looking rearward, pokes itself out
from time to time, methinks there are features in it —? Quick, Sieur
Guillaume, Clerk of the Directoire, bring me a new Assignat!
Drouet scans
the new Assignat; compares the Paper-money Picture with the Gross-Head in
round hat there: by Day and Night! you might say the one was an attempted
Engraving of the other. And this march of Troops; this sauntering and
whispering, — I see it!
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Drouet, with the help of the portrait on a 50-franc assignat, recognizes the
King whom he had seen in Paris.
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Drouet Post-master of this Village, hot Patriot, Old Dragoon of Condé,
consider, therefore, what thou wilt do. And fast: for behold the new
Berline, expeditiously yoked, cracks whipcord, and rolls away! — Drouet dare
not, on the spur of the instant, clutch the bridles in his own two hands;
Dandoins, with broadsword, might hew you off. Our poor Nationals, not one
of them here, have three hundred fusils but then no powder; besides one is
not sure, only morally-certain. Drouet, as an adroit Old-Dragoon of
Condé
does what is advisablest: privily bespeaks Clerk Guillaume, Old-Dragoon of
Condé he too; privily, while Clerk Guillaume is saddling two of the
fleetest horses, slips over to the Townhall to whisper a word; then mounts
with Clerk Guillaume; and the two bound eastward in pursuit, to see what
can be done.
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Drouet and a friend take off in pursuit of the carriage.
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They bound eastward, in sharp trot; their moral-certainty permeating the
Village, from the Townhall outwards, in busy whispers. Alas! Captain
Dandoins orders his Dragoons to mount; but they, complaining of long fast,
demand bread-and-cheese first; — before which brief repast can be eaten, the
whole Village is permeated; not whispering now, but blustering and
shrieking! National Volunteers, in hurried muster, shriek for gunpowder;
Dragoons halt between Patriotism and Rule of the Service, between bread and
cheese and fixed bayonets: Dandoins hands secretly his Pocket-book, with
its secret despatches, to the rigorous Quartermaster: the very Ostlers
have stable-forks and flails. The rigorous Quartermaster, half-saddled,
cuts out his way with the sword's edge, amid levelled bayonets, amid
Patriot vociferations, adjurations, flail-strokes; and rides frantic;
(Declaration de La Gache (in Choiseul), p. 134.) —
few or even none
following him; the rest, so sweetly constrained consenting to stay there.
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The villagers of Sainte Menehould prevent Dandoin's Dragoons from setting out
after the carriage.
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And thus the new Berline rolls; and Drouet and Guillaume gallop after it,
and Dandoins's Troopers or Trooper gallops after them; and Sainte-Menehould,
with some leagues of the King's Highway, is in explosion; — and
your Military thunder-chain has gone off in a self-destructive manner; one
may fear with the frightfullest issues!
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Things are starting to look bad for the conspirators.
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This comes of mysterious Escorts, and a new Berline with eleven horses:
'he that has a secret should not only hide it, but hide that he has it to
hide.'[129]
Your first Military Escort has exploded self-destructive; and all
Military Escorts, and a suspicious Country will now be up, explosive;
comparable not to victorious thunder. Comparable, say rather, to the first
stirring of an Alpine Avalanche; which, once stir it, as here at
Sainte-Menehould, will spread, — all round, and on and on, as far as Stenai;
thundering with wild ruin, till Patriot Villagers, Peasantry, Military
Escorts, new Berline and Royalty are down, — jumbling in the Abyss!
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The Poe dictum of "hiding in plain sight" is not working.
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The thick shades of Night are falling. Postilions crack the whip: the
Royal Berline is through Clermont, where Colonel Comte de
Damas?
got a word
whispered to it; is safe through, towards Varennes; rushing at the rate of
double drink-money: an Unknown 'Inconnu [stranger] on horseback'
shrieks earnestly
some hoarse whisper, not audible, into the rushing Carriage-window, and
vanishes, left in the night. (Campan, ii. 159.)
August Travellers
palpitate; nevertheless overwearied Nature sinks every one of them into a
kind of sleep. Alas, and Drouet and Clerk Guillaume spur; taking side-roads,
for shortness, for safety; scattering abroad that moral-certainty of
theirs; which flies, a bird of the air carrying it!
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At Clermont they turn north towards Varennes. Drouet has taken a short-cut
across the Ardennes.
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And your rigorous Quartermaster spurs; awakening hoarse trumpet-tone, as
here at Clermont, calling out Dragoons gone to bed. Brave Colonel de Damas
has them mounted, in part, these Clermont men; young Cornet Remy dashes off
with a few. But the Patriot Magistracy is out here at Clermont too;
National Guards shrieking for ball-cartridges; and the Village 'illuminates
itself;' — deft Patriots springing out of bed; alertly, in shirt or shift,
striking a light; sticking up each his farthing candle, or penurious
oil-cruise, till all glitters and glimmers; so deft are they!
A camisado, or
shirt-tumult, every where: stormbell set a-ringing; village-drum beating
furious générale,
as here at Clermont, under illumination; distracted
Patriots pleading and menacing! Brave young Colonel de Damas, in that
uproar of distracted Patriotism, speaks some fire-sentences to what
Troopers he has: "Comrades insulted at Sainte-Menehould; King and Country
calling on the brave;" then gives the fire-word, Draw swords.
Whereupon,
alas, the Troopers only smite their sword-handles, driving them further
home! "To me, whoever is for the King!" cries Damas in despair; and
gallops, he with some poor loyal Two, of the subaltern sort, into the bosom
of the Night. (Procès-verbal du Directoire de
Clermont (in Choiseul, p. 189-95).)
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The carriage is through Clermont before Damas knows about it. He is hindered
by the town from forming his troop to follow the Berline.
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Night unexampled in the Clermontais; shortest of the year; remarkablest of
the century: Night deserving to be named of Spurs! Cornet Remy, and those
Few he dashed off with, has missed his road; is galloping for hours towards
Verdun; then, for hours, across hedged country, through roused hamlets,
towards Varennes. Unlucky Cornet Remy; unluckier Colonel Damas, with whom
there ride desperate only some loyal Two! More ride not of that Clermont
Escort: of other Escorts, in other Villages, not even Two may ride; but
only all curvet and prance, — impeded by stormbell and your Village
illuminating itself.
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The main body of dragoons has turned east instead of north; others are
kept from riding by local patriots.
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And Drouet rides and Clerk Guillaume; and the Country runs. — Goguelat and
Duke Choiseul are plunging through morasses, over cliffs, over stock and
stone, in the shaggy woods of the Clermontais; by tracks; or trackless,
with guides; Hussars tumbling into pitfalls, and lying 'swooned three
quarters of an hour,' the rest refusing to march without them. What an
evening-ride from Pont-de-Sommerville; what a thirty hours, since Choiseul
quitted Paris, with Queen's-valet Leonard in the chaise by him! Black Care
sits behind the rider. Thus go they plunging; rustle the owlet from his
branchy nest; champ the sweet-scented forest-herb, queen-of-the-meadows
spilling her spikenard [fragrant oil];
and frighten the ear of Night. But hark! towards
twelve o'clock, as one guesses, for the very stars are gone out: sound of
the tocsin from Varennes? Checking bridle, the Hussar Officer listens:
"Some fire undoubtedly!" — yet rides on, with double breathlessness, to
verify.
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The soldiers supposed to be riding guard alongside the King are thrashing
through the weeds far away as the coach rolls into Varennes.
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Yes, gallant friends that do your utmost, it is a certain sort of fire:
difficult to quench. — The Korff Berline, fairly ahead of all this riding
Avalanche, reached the little paltry Village of Varennes about eleven
o'clock; hopeful, in spite of that horse-whispering Unknown. Do not all
towns now lie behind us; Verdun avoided, on our right? Within wind of
Bouillé himself, in a manner;
and the darkest of midsummer nights favouring
us! And so we halt on the hill-top at the South end of the Village;
expecting our relay; which young Bouillé,
Bouillé's own son, with his
Escort of Hussars, was to have ready; for in this Village is no Post.
Distracting to think of: neither horse nor Hussar is here! Ah, and stout
horses, a proper relay belonging to Duke Choiseul, do stand at hay, but in
the Upper Village over the Bridge; and we know not of them. Hussars
likewise do wait, but drinking in the taverns. For indeed it is six hours
beyond the time; young Bouillé, silly stripling,
thinking the matter over
for this night, has retired to bed. And so our yellow Couriers,
inexperienced, must rove, groping, bungling, through a Village mostly
asleep: Postilions will not, for any money, go on with the tired horses;
not at least without refreshment; not they, let the Valet in round hat
argue as he likes.
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In the middle of the night, the King's party cannot find the change of horses
left by Choiseul. The drivers refuse to go on.
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Miserable! 'For five-and-thirty minutes' by the King's watch, the Berline
is at a dead stand; Round-hat arguing with Churnboots; tired horses
slobbering their meal-and-water; yellow Couriers groping, bungling; — young
Bouillé asleep, all the while, in the Upper Village, and Choiseul's fine
team standing there at hay. No help for it; not with a King's ransom: the
horses deliberately slobber, Round-hat argues, Bouillé sleeps. And mark
now, in the thick night, do not two Horsemen, with jaded trot, come
clank-clanking; and start with half-pause,
if one noticed them, at sight of this
dim mass of a Berline, and its dull slobbering and arguing; then prick off
faster, into the Village? It is Drouet, he and Clerk Guillaume! Still
ahead, they two, of the whole riding hurlyburly; unshot, though some brag
of having chased them. Perilous is Drouet's errand also; but he is an Old-
Dragoon, with his wits shaken thoroughly awake.
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Drouet catches and passes the waiting Berline.
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The Village of Varennes lies dark and slumberous; a most unlevel Village,
of inverse saddle-shape, as men write. It sleeps; the rushing of the River
Aire singing lullaby to it. Nevertheless from the Golden Arms,
Bras d'Or
Tavern, across that sloping marketplace, there still comes shine of social
light; comes voice of rude drovers, or the like, who have not yet taken the
stirrup-cup; Boniface Le Blanc, in white apron, serving them: cheerful to
behold. To this Bras d'Or, Drouet enters, alacrity looking through his
eyes: he nudges Boniface, in all privacy,
"Camarade, es tu bon Patriote,
Art thou a good Patriot?" — "Si je suis!" answers Boniface.
— "In that case,"
eagerly whispers Drouet — what whisper is needful, heard of Boniface alone.
(Deux Amis, vi. 139-78.)
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There is only one inn open. Drouet rides there.
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And now see Boniface Le Blanc bustling, as he never did for the jolliest
toper. See Drouet and Guillaume, dexterous Old-Dragoons, instantly down
blocking the Bridge, with a 'furniture waggon they find there,' with
whatever waggons, tumbrils, barrels, barrows their hands can lay hold of; —
till no carriage can pass. Then swiftly, the Bridge once blocked, see them
take station hard by, under Varennes Archway: joined by Le Blanc, Le
Blanc's Brother, and one or two alert Patriots he has roused. Some
half-dozen in all, with National Muskets, they stand close, waiting under the
Archway, till that same Korff Berline rumble up.
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When the King's coach again sets out, it finds the bridge barricaded against
them.
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It rumbles up: Alte là! lanterns flash out from under coat-skirts,
bridles
chuck in strong fists, two National Muskets level themselves fore and aft
through the two Coach-doors: "Mesdames, your Passports?" — Alas! Alas!
Sieur Sausse, Procureur of the Township, Tallow-chandler also and Grocer is
there, with official grocer-politeness; Drouet with fierce logic and ready
wit: — The respected Travelling Party, be it Baroness de Korff's, or persons
of still higher consequence, will perhaps please to rest itself in M.
Sausse's till the dawn strike up!
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The party is taken to Sausse's grocery.
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O Louis; O hapless Marie-Antoinette, fated to pass thy life with such men!
Phlegmatic Louis, art thou but lazy semi-animate phlegm then, to the centre
of thee? King, Captain-General, Sovereign Frank! If thy heart ever
formed, since it began beating under the name of heart, any resolution at
all, be it now then, or never in this world: "Violent nocturnal
individuals, and if it were persons of high consequence? And if it were
the King himself? Has the King not the power, which all beggars have, of
travelling unmolested on his own Highway? Yes: it is the King; and
tremble ye to know it! The King has said, in this one small matter; and in
France, or under God's Throne, is no power that shall gainsay. Not the
King shall ye stop here under this your miserable Archway; but his dead
body only, and answer it to Heaven and Earth. To me, Bodyguards:
Postilions, en avant!" —
One fancies in that case the pale paralysis of
these two Le Blanc musketeers; the drooping of Drouet's under-jaw; and how
Procureur Sausse had melted like tallow in furnace-heat:
Louis faring on;
in some few steps awakening Young Bouillé,
awakening relays and hussars:
triumphant entry, with cavalcading high-brandishing Escort, and Escorts,
into Montmédi; and the whole course of French History different!
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Carlyle thinks things may have been different had Louis asserted himself.
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Alas, it was not in the poor phlegmatic man. Had it been in him, French
History had never come under this Varennes Archway to decide itself. — He
steps out; all step out. Procureur Sausse gives his grocer-arms to the
Queen and Sister Elizabeth; Majesty taking the two children by the hand.
And thus they walk, coolly back, over the Marketplace, to Procureur
Sausse's; mount into his small upper story; where straightway his Majesty
'demands refreshments.' Demands refreshments, as is written; gets
bread-and-cheese with a bottle of Burgundy; and remarks, that it is the best
Burgundy he ever drank!
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Carlyle recognizes this as extremely idle speculation. The party
goes quietly.
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Meanwhile, the Varennes Notables, and all men, official, and non-official,
are hastily drawing on their breeches; getting their fighting-gear.
Mortals half-dressed tumble out barrels, lay felled trees; scouts dart off
to all the four winds, — the tocsin begins clanging, 'the Village
illuminates itself.' Very singular: how these little Villages do manage,
so adroit are they, when startled in midnight alarm of war. Like little
adroit municipal rattle-snakes, suddenly awakened: for their stormbell
rattles and rings; their eyes glisten luminous (with tallow-light), as in
rattle-snake ire; and the Village will sting! Old-Dragoon Drouet is our
engineer and generalissimo; valiant as a Ruy Diaz [El Cid]: — Now or never, ye
Patriots, for the Soldiery is coming; massacre by Austrians, by
Aristocrats, wars more than civil, it all depends on you and the hour! —
National Guards rank themselves, half-buttoned: mortals, we say, still
only in breeches, in under-petticoat, tumble out barrels and lumber, lay
felled trees for barricades: the Village will sting.
Rabid Democracy, it
would seem, is not confined to Paris, then? Ah no, whatsoever Courtiers
might talk; too clearly no. This of dying for one's King is grown into a
dying for one's self, against the King, if need be.
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The small village springs to self-defensive action.
Carlyle compares it to a rattlesnake
roused. It is unlikely that Carlyle has much experience with rattlesnakes.
|
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And so our riding and running Avalanche and Hurlyburly has reached the
Abyss, Korff Berline foremost; and may pour itself thither, and jumble:
endless! For the next six hours, need we ask if there was a clattering far
and wide? Clattering and tocsining and hot tumult, over all the
Clermontais, spreading through the Three
Bishopricks [Metz, Toul and Verdun]:
Dragoon and Hussar
Troops galloping on roads and no-roads; National Guards arming and starting
in the dead of night; tocsin after tocsin transmitting the alarm. In some
forty minutes, Goguelat and Choiseul, with their wearied Hussars, reach
Varennes. Ah, it is no fire then; or a fire difficult to quench! They
leap the tree-barricades, in spite of National serjeant; they enter the
village, Choiseul instructing his Troopers how the matter really is; who
respond interjectionally, in their guttural dialect, "Der König; die
Königinn!" and seem stanch. These now, in their stanch humour,
will, for
one thing, beset Procureur Sausse's house. Most beneficial: had not
Drouet stormfully ordered otherwise; and even bellowed, in his extremity,
"Cannoneers to your guns!" — two old honey-combed Field-pieces, empty of all
but cobwebs; the rattle whereof, as the Cannoneers with assured countenance
trundled them up, did nevertheless abate the Hussar ardour, and produce a
respectfuller ranking further back. Jugs of wine, handed over the ranks,
for the German throat too has sensibility, will complete the business.
When Engineer Goguelat, some hour or so afterwards, steps forth, the
response to him is — a hiccuping Vive la Nation!
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Drouet manages to intimidate (or co-opt) the dragoons and Hussars when they
finally do arrive.
|
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What boots it? Goguelat, Choiseul, now also Count Damas, and all the
Varennes Officiality are with the King; and the King can give no order,
form no opinion; but sits there, as he has ever done, like clay on potter's
wheel; perhaps the absurdest of all pitiable and pardonable clay-figures
that now circle under the Moon. He will go on, next morning, and take the
National Guard with him; Sausse permitting! Hapless Queen: with her two
children laid there on the mean bed, old Mother Sausse kneeling to Heaven,
with tears and an audible prayer, to bless them; imperial Marie-Antoinette
near kneeling to Son Sausse and Wife Sausse, amid candle-boxes and
treacle-barrels, — in vain!
There are Three-thousand National Guards got in; before
long they will count Ten-thousand; tocsins spreading like fire on dry
heath, or far faster.
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Within hours there are thousands of National Guards in the town and the
escape is a failure.
|
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Young Bouillé, roused by this Varennes tocsin,
has taken horse, and — fled
towards his Father. Thitherward also rides, in an almost hysterically
desperate manner, a certain Sieur Aubriot, Choiseul's Orderly; swimming
dark rivers, our Bridge being blocked; spurring as if the Hell-hunt were at
his heels. (Rapport de M. Aubriot (Choiseul, p. 150-7.)
Through the
village of Dun, he, galloping still on, scatters the alarm; at Dun, brave
Captain Deslons and his Escort of a Hundred, saddle and ride.
Deslons too
gets into Varennes; leaving his Hundred outside, at the tree-barricade;
offers to cut King Louis out, if he will order it: but unfortunately "the
work will prove hot;" whereupon King Louis has "no orders to give."
(Extrait d'un Rapport de M. Deslons (Choiseul, p. 164-7.)
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A full mounted company arrives from the east, but the King will not give
orders to attack the Varennes defenders.
|
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And so the tocsin clangs, and Dragoons gallop; and can do nothing, having
galloped: National Guards stream in like the gathering of ravens: your
exploding Thunder-chain, falling Avalanche, or what else we liken it to,
does play, with a vengeance, —
up now as far as Stenai and Bouillé himself.
(Bouillé, ii. 74-6.)
Brave Bouillé, son of the whirlwind, he saddles Royal
Allemand; speaks fire-words, kindling heart and eyes; distributes twenty-
five gold-louis a company: — Ride, Royal-Allemand, long-famed: no Tuileries
Charge and Necker-Orléans Bust-Procession; a very King made captive, and
world all to win! — Such is the Night deserving to be named of Spurs.
|
Boullé marches the regiment of Royal-Allemand (German mercenaries)
west toward Varennes.
|
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At six o'clock two things have happened. Lafayette's Aide-de-camp,
Romœuf?,
riding à franc étrier,
on that old Herb-merchant's route,
quickened during the last stages, has got to Varennes; where the Ten
thousand now furiously demand, with fury of panic terror, that Royalty
shall forthwith return Paris-ward, that there be not infinite bloodshed.
Also, on the other side, 'English Tom,' Choiseul's jokei,
flying with that
Choiseul relay, has met Bouillé on the heights of Dun;
the adamantine brow
flushed with dark thunder; thunderous rattle of Royal Allemand at his
heels. English Tom answers as he can the brief question, How it is at
Varennes? — then asks in turn what he, English Tom, with M. de Choiseul's
horses, is to do, and whither to ride? — To the Bottomless Pool! answers a
thunder-voice; then again speaking and spurring, orders Royal Allemand to
the gallop; and vanishes, swearing (en jurant).
(Declaration du Sieur
Thomas (in Choiseul, p. 188).)
'Tis the last of our brave Bouillé. Within
sight of Varennes, he having drawn bridle, calls a council of officers;
finds that it is in vain. King Louis has departed, consenting: amid the
clangour of universal stormbell; amid the tramp of Ten thousand armed men,
already arrived; and say, of Sixty thousand flocking thither. Brave
Deslons, even without 'orders,' darted at the River Aire with his Hundred!
(Weber, ii. 386.) swam one branch of it,
could not the other; and stood
there, dripping and panting, with inflated nostril; the Ten thousand
answering him with a shout of mockery, the new Berline lumbering Paris-ward
its weary inevitable way. No help, then in Earth; nor in an age, not of
miracles, in Heaven!
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By the time Bouillé and his Royal-Allemande arrives at Varennes, the
King has already set off back to Paris in the company of Romoeuf.
|
|
That night, 'Marquis de Bouillé and twenty-one more of us rode over the
Frontiers; the Bernardine monks at Orval in Luxemburg gave us supper and
lodging.' (Aubriot, ut supra, p. 158.)
With little of speech, Bouillé
rides; with thoughts that do not brook speech. Northward, towards
uncertainty, and the Cimmerian Night: towards West-Indian Isles, for with
thin Emigrant delirium the son of the whirlwind cannot act; towards
England, towards premature Stoical death; not towards France any more.
Honour to the Brave; who, be it in this quarrel or in that, is a substance
and articulate-speaking piece of Human Valour, not a fanfaronading hollow
Spectrum and squeaking and gibbering Shadow! One of the few Royalist
Chief-actors this
Bouillé?,
of whom so much can be said.
|
Bouillé and his chief officers immediately cross the lines to the
Austrians.
|
|
The brave Bouillé too, then, vanishes from the tissue of our Story.
Story
and tissue, faint ineffectual Emblem of that grand Miraculous Tissue, and
Living Tapestry named French Revolution, which did weave itself then in
very fact, 'on the loud-sounding 'LOOM OF TIME!' The old Brave drop out
from it, with their strivings; and new acrid Drouets, of new strivings and
colour, come in: — as is the manner of that weaving.
|
The failure of the flight marks a turning point in the history of the
revolution.
|
|
So then our grand Royalist Plot, of Flight to Metz, has executed itself.
Long hovering in the background, as a dread royal ultimatum, it has rushed
forward in its terrors: verily to some purpose. How many Royalist Plots
and Projects, one after another, cunningly-devised, that were to explode
like powder-mines and thunderclaps; not one solitary Plot of which has
issued otherwise! Powder-mine of a Séance Royale
on the Twenty-third of
June 1789, which exploded as we then said, 'through the touchhole;' which
next, your wargod Broglie having reloaded it,
brought a Bastille about your
ears. Then came fervent Opera-Repast, with flourishing of sabres, and O
Richard, O my King; which, aided by Hunger, produces Insurrection of Women,
and Pallas Athene in the shape of Demoiselle Théroigne. Valour profits
not; neither has fortune smiled on Fanfaronade.
The Bouillé Armament ends
as the Broglie one had done. Man after man spends himself in this cause,
only to work it quicker ruin; it seems a cause doomed, forsaken of Earth
and Heaven.
|
Everything the royalists have done in the last 2 years has blown up in
their faces.
|
|
On the Sixth of October gone a year, King Louis, escorted by Demoiselle
Théroigne and some two hundred thousand,
made a Royal Progress and Entrance
into Paris, such as man had never witnessed: we prophesied him Two more
such; and accordingly another of them, after this Flight to Metz, is now
coming to pass. Théroigne will not escort here,
neither does Mirabeau now
'sit in one of the accompanying carriages.' Mirabeau lies dead, in the
Pantheon of Great Men. Théroigne lies living, in dark Austrian Prison;
having gone to Liége, professionally, and been seized there. Bemurmured
now by the hoarse-flowing Danube; the light of her Patriot Supper-Parties
gone quite out; so lies Théroigne:
she shall speak with the Kaiser face to
face, and return. And France lies how! Fleeting Time shears down the
great and the little; and in two years alters many things.
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Again Louis and his queen are escorted unwillingly to Paris.
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But at all events, here, we say, is a second Ignominious Royal Procession,
though much altered; to be witnessed also by its hundreds of thousands.
Patience, ye Paris Patriots; the Royal Berline is returning. Not till
Saturday: for the Royal Berline travels by slow stages; amid such
loud-voiced confluent sea of National Guards,
sixty thousand as they count; amid
such tumult of all people. Three National-Assembly Commissioners,
famed
Barnave, famed Pétion, generally-respectable Latour-Maubourg,
have gone to
meet it; of whom the two former ride in the Berline itself beside Majesty,
day after day. Latour, as a mere respectability, and man of whom all men
speak well, can ride in the rear, with Dame Tourzel [the governess] and the
Soubrettes [maidservants].
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Barnave and Pétion, to their later disadvantage, ride in the Berline
with the royal family.
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So on Saturday evening, about seven o'clock, Paris by hundreds of thousands
is again drawn up: not now dancing the tricolor joy-dance of hope; nor as
yet dancing in fury-dance of hate and revenge; but in silence, with vague
look of conjecture and curiosity mostly scientific. A Sainte-Antoine
Placard has given notice this morning that 'whosoever insults Louis shall
be caned, whosoever applauds him shall be hanged.' Behold then, at last,
that wonderful New Berline; encircled by blue National sea with fixed
bayonets, which flows slowly, floating it on, through the silent assembled
hundreds of thousands. Three yellow Couriers sit atop bound with ropes;
Pétion, Barnave, their Majesties, with Sister Elizabeth, and the Children
of France, are within.
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The coach travels through a great and silent Paris crowd.
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Smile of embarrassment, or cloud of dull sourness, is on the broad
phlegmatic face of his Majesty: who keeps declaring to the successive
Official-persons, what is evident, "Eh bien, me voilà,
Well, here you have
me;" and what is not evident, "I do assure you I did not mean to pass the
frontiers;" and so forth: speeches natural for that poor Royal man; which
Decency would veil. Silent is her Majesty, with a look of grief and scorn;
natural for that Royal Woman. Thus lumbers and creeps the ignominious
Royal Procession, through many streets, amid a silent-gazing people:
comparable, Mercier thinks, (Nouveau Paris, iii. 22.)
to some Procession de
Roi de Bazoche; or say, Procession of King
Crispin[130], with his Dukes of
Sutor-mania and royal blazonry of Cordwainery. Except indeed that this is
not comic; ah no, it is comico-tragic; with bound Couriers, and a Doom
hanging over it; most fantastic, yet most miserably real. Miserablest
flebile ludibrium [sad mockery]
of a Pickleherring Tragedy! It sweeps along there, in
most ungorgeous pall, through many streets, in the dusty summer evening;
gets itself at length wriggled out of sight; vanishing in the Tuileries
Palace — towards its doom, of slow torture, peine forte et dure
[being pressed to death].
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The king is now held in ridicule and will be treated as a felon.
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Populace, it is true, seizes the three rope-bound yellow Couriers; will at
least massacre them. But our august Assembly, which is sitting at this
great moment, sends out Deputation of rescue; and the whole is got huddled
up. Barnave, 'all dusty,' is already there, in the National Hall; making
brief discreet address and report. As indeed, through the whole journey,
this Barnave has been most discreet, sympathetic; and has gained the
Queen's trust, whose noble instinct teaches her always who is to be
trusted. Very different from heavy Pétion; who, if Campan speak truth, ate
his luncheon, comfortably filled his wine-glass, in the Royal Berline;
flung out his chicken-bones past the nose of Royalty itself; and, on the
King's saying "France cannot be a Republic," answered "No, it is not ripe
yet." Barnave is henceforth a Queen's adviser, if advice could profit:
and her Majesty astonishes Dame Campan by signifying almost a regard for
Barnave: and that, in a day of retribution and Royal triumph, Barnave
shall not be executed. (Campan, ii. c. 18.)
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The royals are tucked back in the Tuileries without violence.
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| |
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On Monday night Royalty went; on Saturday evening it returns: so much,
within one short week, has Royalty accomplished for itself. The
Pickleherring Tragedy has vanished in the Tuileries Palace, towards 'pain
strong and hard.' Watched, fettered, and humbled, as Royalty never was.
Watched even in its sleeping-apartments and inmost recesses: for it has to
sleep with door set ajar, blue National Argus watching, his eye fixed on
the Queen's curtains; nay, on one occasion, as the Queen cannot sleep, he
offers to sit by her pillow, and converse a little!
(Ibid. ii. 149.)
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They remain there under close guard.
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In regard to all which, this most pressing question arises: What is to be
done with it? "Depose it!" resolutely answer Robespierre and the
thoroughgoing few. For truly, with a King who runs away, and needs to be
watched in his very bedroom that he may stay and govern you, what other
reasonable thing can be done? Had Philippe d'Orléans not been a
caput
mortuum! But of him, known as one defunct, no man now dreams. "Depose it
not; say that it is inviolable, that it was spirited away, was
enlevé; at
any cost of sophistry and solecism, reestablish it!" so answer with loud
vehemence all manner of Constitutional Royalists; as all your Pure
Royalists do naturally likewise, with low vehemence, and rage compressed by
fear, still more passionately answer. Nay Barnave and the two Lameths, and
what will follow them, do likewise answer so. Answer, with their whole
might: terror-struck at the unknown Abysses on the verge of which, driven
thither by themselves mainly, all now reels, ready to plunge.
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The revolutionists now find themselves monarchists to keep from becoming
republicans.
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By mighty effort and combination this latter course, of "reestablish it", is
the course fixed on; and it shall by the strong arm, if not by the clearest
logic, be made good. With the sacrifice of all their hard-earned
popularity, this notable Triumvirate [Barnave and the Lambeths],
says Toulongeon?,
'set the Throne up
again, which they had so toiled to overturn: as one might set up an
overturned pyramid, on its vertex; to stand so long as it is held.'
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The leading members of the Constituent try to establish the status quo
ante.
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Unhappy France; unhappy in King, Queen, and Constitution; one knows not in
which unhappiest! Was the meaning of our so glorious French Revolution
this, and no other, That when Shams and Delusions, long soul-killing, had
become body-killing, and got the length of Bankruptcy and
Inanition [emptiness], a
great People rose and, with one voice, said, in the Name of the Highest:
Shams shall be no more?
So many sorrows and bloody horrors, endured, and
to be yet endured through dismal coming centuries, were they not the heavy
price paid and payable for this same: Total Destruction of Shams from
among men? And now, O Barnave Triumvirate! is it in such
double-distilléd
Delusion, and Sham even of a Sham, that an Effort of this kind will rest
acquiescent? Messieurs of the popular Triumvirate: Never! But, after
all, what can poor popular Triumvirates and fallible august Senators do?
They can, when the Truth is all too-horrible, stick their heads ostrich-
like into what sheltering Fallacy is nearest: and wait there, à
posteriori!
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If that be a sham and a betrayal of the revolution, what is the alternative?
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Readers who saw the Clermontais and Three-Bishopricks gallop, in the Night
of Spurs; Diligences ruffling up all France into one terrific terrified
Cock of India [turkey]; and the Town of Nantes in its shirt, — may
fancy what an
affair to settle this was. Robespierre, on the extreme Left, with perhaps
Pétion and lean old Goupil,
for the very Triumvirate has defalcated [embezzled?], are
shrieking hoarse; drowned in Constitutional clamour. But the debate and
arguing of a whole Nation; the bellowings through all Journals, for and
against; the reverberant voice of Danton; the Hyperion-shafts of Camille;
the porcupine-quills of implacable Marat: — conceive all this.
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The King's acts are a source of great dissonance.
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Constitutionalists in a body, as we often predicted, do now recede from the
Mother Society?,
and become
Feuillans?;
threatening her with inanition, the
rank and respectability being mostly gone. Petition after Petition,
forwarded by Post, or borne in Deputation, comes praying for Judgment and
Déchéance, which is our name for Deposition;
praying, at lowest, for
Reference to the Eighty-three Departments of France. Hot Marseillese
Deputation comes declaring, among other things: "Our Phocean Ancestors
flung a Bar of Iron into the Bay at their first landing; this Bar will
float again on the Mediterranean brine before we consent to be slaves."
All this for four weeks or more, while the matter still hangs doubtful;
Emigration streaming with double violence over the frontiers;
(Bouillé, ii. 101.)
France seething in fierce agitation of this question and prize-question:
What is to be done with the fugitive Hereditary Representative?
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While monarchists split off from the Jabobins;
royalists and aristocrats flee the country; and the whole country demands
a decision; things hang fire.
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Finally, on Friday the 15th of July 1791, the National Assembly decides; in
what negatory manner we know. Whereupon the Theatres all close, the
Bourne-stones and Portable-chairs begin spouting, Municipal Placards
flaming on the walls, and Proclamations published by sound of trumpet,
'invite to repose;' with small effect. And so, on Sunday the 17th, there
shall be a thing seen, worthy of remembering. Scroll of a Petition, drawn
up by Brissots, Dantons, by Cordeliers, Jacobins; for the thing was
infinitely shaken and manipulated, and many had a hand in it: such Scroll
lies now visible, on the wooden framework of the Fatherland's Altar, for
signature. Unworking Paris, male and female, is crowding thither, all day,
to sign or to see. Our fair Roland herself the eye of History can discern
there, 'in the morning;' (Madame Roland, ii. 74.)
not without interest. In
few weeks the fair Patriot will quit Paris; yet perhaps only to return.
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The Assembly decides to let the issue slide, leading to a petition drive for
the King's removal.
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But, what with sorrow of baulked Patriotism, what with closed theatres, and
Proclamations still publishing themselves by sound of trumpet, the fervour
of men's minds, this day, is great. Nay, over and above, there has fallen
out an incident, of the nature of Farce-Tragedy and Riddle; enough to
stimulate all creatures. Early in the day, a Patriot (or some say, it was
a Patriotess, and indeed Truth is undiscoverable), while standing on the
firm deal-board of Fatherland's Altar, feels suddenly, with indescribable
torpedo-shock of amazement, his bootsole pricked through from below; he
clutches up suddenly this electrified bootsole and foot; discerns next
instant—the point of a gimlet or brad-awl playing up, through the firm
deal-board, and now hastily drawing itself back! Mystery, perhaps Treason?
The wooden frame-work is impetuously broken up; and behold, verily a
mystery; never explicable fully to the end of the world! Two human
individuals, of mean aspect, one of them with a wooden leg, lie ensconced
there, gimlet in hand: they must have come in overnight; they have a
supply of provisions, — no 'barrel of gunpowder' that one can see; they
affect to be asleep; look blank enough, and give the lamest account of
themselves. "Mere curiosity; they were boring up to get an eye-hole; to
see, perhaps 'with lubricity,' whatsoever, from that new point of vision,
could be seen:" — little that was edifying, one would think! But indeed
what stupidest thing may not human Dulness, Pruriency, Lubricity, Chance
and the Devil, choosing Two out of Half-a-million idle human heads, tempt
them to? (Hist. Parl. xi. 104-7.)
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Sure enough, the two human individuals with their gimlet are there.
Ill-starred pair of individuals! For the result of it all is that Patriotism,
fretting itself, in this state of nervous excitability, with hypotheses,
suspicions and reports, keeps questioning these two distracted human
individuals, and again questioning them; claps them into the nearest
Guardhouse, clutches them out again; one hypothetic group snatching them
from another: till finally, in such extreme state of nervous excitability,
Patriotism hangs them as spies of Sieur Motier; and the life and secret is
choked out of them forevermore. Forevermore, alas! Or is a day to be
looked for when these two evidently mean individuals, who are human
nevertheless, will become Historical Riddles; and, like him of the Iron
Mask (also a human individual, and evidently nothing more), — have their
Dissertations? To us this only is certain, that they had a gimlet,
provisions and a wooden leg; and have died there on the Lanterne, as the
unluckiest fools might die.
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And so the signature goes on, in a still more excited manner. And
Chaumette?,
for Antiquarians possess the very Paper to this hour,
(Ibid. xi. 113, etc.) —
has signed himself 'in a flowing saucy hand slightly leaned;'
and Hébert?,
detestable Père Duchesne,
as if 'an inked spider had dropped on
the paper;' Usher
Maillard?
also has signed, and many Crosses, which cannot
write. And Paris, through its thousand avenues, is welling to the
Champ-de-Mars and from it, in the utmost excitability of humour; central
Fatherland's Altar quite heaped with signing Patriots and Patriotesses; the
Thirty-benches and whole internal Space crowded with onlookers, with comers
and goers; one regurgitating whirlpool of men and women in their Sunday
clothes. All which a Constitutional Sieur Motier sees; and Bailly, looking
into it with his long visage made still longer. Auguring no good; perhaps
Déchéance and Deposition after all!
Stop it, ye Constitutional Patriots;
fire itself is quenchable, yet only quenchable at first!
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Parisians come in droves to sign.
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Stop it, truly: but how stop it? Have not the first Free People of the
Universe a right to petition? — Happily, if also unhappily, here is one
proof of riot: these two human individuals, hanged at the Lanterne.
Proof, O treacherous Sieur Motier? Were they not two human individuals
sent thither by thee to be hanged;
to be a pretext for thy bloody Drapeau
Rouge? This question shall many a Patriot, one day, ask; and answer
affirmatively, strong in Preternatural Suspicion.
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There is suspicion that the municipal government is looking for an excuse
to declare martial law.
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Enough, towards half past seven in the evening, the mere natural eye can
behold this thing: Sieur Motier, with Municipals in scarf, with blue
National Patrollotism, rank after rank, to the clang of drums; wending
resolutely to the Champ-de-Mars; Mayor Bailly, with elongated visage,
bearing, as in sad duty bound, the Drapeau Rouge!
Howl of angry derision
rises in treble and bass from a hundred thousand throats, at the sight of
Martial Law; which nevertheless waving its Red sanguinary Flag, advances
there, from the Gros-Caillou Entrance; advances, drumming and waving,
towards Altar of Fatherland. Amid still wilder howls, with objurgation,
obtestation; with flights of pebbles and mud, saxa et faeces;
with crackle
of a pistol-shot; — finally with volley-fire of Patrollotism; levelled
muskets; roll of volley on volley! Precisely after one year and three
days, our sublime Federation Field is wetted, in this manner, with French
blood.
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July 17, 1791, Martial Law is declared, with some bloodshed.
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Some 'Twelve unfortunately shot,' reports Bailly, counting by units; but
Patriotism counts by tens and even by hundreds. Not to be forgotten, nor
forgiven! Patriotism flies, shrieking, execrating. Camille ceases
Journalising, this day; great Danton with Camille and Fréron have taken
wing, for their life; Marat burrows deep in the Earth, and is silent. Once
more Patrollotism has triumphed: one other time; but it is the last.
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The advocates of constitutional monarchy carry the day one more time.
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| |
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This was the Royal Flight to Varennes. Thus was the Throne overturned
thereby; but thus also was it victoriously set up again — on its vertex; and
will stand while it can be held.
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The monarchy, though, is through. It will topple with a touch.
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In the last nights of September, when the autumnal equinox is past, and
grey September fades into brown October, why are the Champs Elysees
illuminated; why is Paris dancing, and flinging fire-works? They are gala-
nights, these last of September; Paris may well dance, and the Universe:
the Edifice of the Constitution is completed!
Completed; nay revised, to
see that there was nothing insufficient in it; solemnly proferred to his
Majesty; solemnly accepted by him, to the sound of cannon-salvoes, on the
fourteenth of the month. And now by such illumination, jubilee, dancing
and fire-working, do we joyously handsel [make downpayment on]
the new Social Edifice, and first
raise heat and reek there, in the name of Hope.
|
September, 1791. The monarchical constitution is declared and accepted
by the King.
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The Revision, especially with a throne standing on its vertex, has been a
work of difficulty, of delicacy. In the way of propping and buttressing,
so indispensable now, something could be done; and yet, as is feared, not
enough. A repentant
Barnave?
Triumvirate, our
Rabauts?,
Duports?,
Thourets?,
and indeed all Constitutional Deputies did strain every nerve: but the
Extreme Left was so noisy; the People were so suspicious, clamorous to have
the work ended: and then the loyal Right Side sat feeble petulant all the
while, and as it were, pouting and petting; unable to help, had they even
been willing; the two Hundred and Ninety had solemnly made scission, before
that: and departed, shaking the dust off their feet. To such
transcendency of fret, and desperate hope that worsening of the bad might
the sooner end it and bring back the good, had our unfortunate loyal Right
Side now come! (Toulongeon, ii. 56, 59.)
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It was difficult bringing in a constitution that included a King. The
left opposed and the right deserted the effort.
|
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However, one finds that this and the other little prop has been added,
where possibility allowed. Civil-list and Privy-purse were from of old
well cared for. King's Constitutional Guard, Eighteen hundred loyal men
from the Eighty-three Departments, under a loyal Duke de Brissac; this,
with trustworthy Swiss besides, is of itself something. The old loyal
Bodyguards are indeed dissolved, in name as well as in fact; and gone
mostly towards Coblentz. But now also those Sansculottic violent Gardes
Françaises, or Centre Grenadiers, shall have their mittimus
[arrest warrants]:
they do ere
long, in the Journals, not without a hoarse pathos, publish their Farewell;
'wishing all Aristocrats the graves in Paris which to us are denied.'
(Hist. Parl. xiii. 73.) They depart, these first Soldiers of the
Revolution; they hover very dimly in the distance for about another year;
till they can be remodelled, new-named, and sent to fight the Austrians;
and then History beholds them no more. A most notable Corps of men; which
has its place in World-History;—though to us, so is History written, they
remain mere rubrics of men; nameless; a shaggy Grenadier Mass, crossed with
buff-belts. And yet might we not ask: What Argonauts, what Leonidas'
Spartans had done such a work? Think of their destiny: since that May
morning, some three years ago, when they, unparticipating, trundled off
d'Espréménil?
to the Calypso Isles; since that July evening, some two years
ago, when they, participating and sacreing with knit brows,
poured a volley
into Besenval's Prince de
Lambesc!?
History waves them her mute adieu.
|
There are a few crumbs for the monarchy in the constitution of 1791.
The King is allowed a private budget and money for a Civil List.
He also is assigned a large personal guard. More importantly, the
Centre Grenadiers (formally Gardes Français), his
nominal and often hostile bodyguard, is disbanded.
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So that the Sovereign Power, these Sansculottic Watchdogs, more like
wolves, being leashed and led away from his Tuileries, breathes freer. The
Sovereign Power is guarded henceforth by a loyal Eighteen hundred,—whom
Contrivance, under various pretexts, may gradually swell to Six thousand;
who will hinder no Journey to Saint-Cloud. The sad Varennes business has
been soldered up; cemented, even in the blood of the Champ-de-Mars, these
two months and more; and indeed ever since, as formerly, Majesty has had
its privileges, its 'choice of residence,' though, for good reasons, the
royal mind 'prefers continuing in Paris.' Poor royal mind, poor Paris;
that have to go mumming; enveloped in speciosities, in falsehood which
knows itself false; and to enact mutually your sorrowful farce-tragedy,
being bound to it; and on the whole, to hope always, in spite of hope!
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The new government must live the lie that it is both
constitutional and monarchical.
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Nay, now that his Majesty has accepted the Constitution, to the sound of
cannon-salvoes, who would not hope? Our good King was misguided but he
meant well. Lafayette has moved for an Amnesty, for universal forgiving
and forgetting of Revolutionary faults; and now surely the glorious
Revolution cleared of its rubbish, is complete! Strange enough, and
touching in several ways, the old cry of Vive le Roi
once more rises round
King Louis the Hereditary Representative. Their Majesties went to the
Opera; gave money to the Poor: the Queen herself, now when the
Constitution is accepted, hears voice of cheering. Bygone shall be bygone;
the New Era shall begin! To and fro, amid those lamp-galaxies of the
Elysian Fields, the Royal Carriage slowly wends and rolls; every where with
vivats, from a multitude striving to be glad.
Louis looks out, mainly on
the variegated lamps and gay human groups, with satisfaction enough for the
hour. In her Majesty's face, 'under that kind graceful smile a deep
sadness is legible.' (De Staël,
Considerations, i. c. 23.) Brilliancies,
of valour and of wit, stroll here observant: a Dame de
Staël?,
leaning most
probably on the arm of her Narbonne. She meets Deputies; who have built
this Constitution; who saunter here with vague communings, — not without
thoughts whether it will stand. But as yet melodious fiddlestrings twang
and warble every where, with the rhythm of light fantastic feet; long
lamp-galaxies fling their coloured radiance;
and brass-lunged Hawkers elbow and
bawl, "Grande Acceptation, Constitution Monarchique:"
it behoves the Son
of Adam to hope. Have not Lafayette, Barnave, and all Constitutionalists
set their shoulders handsomely to the inverted pyramid of a throne?
Feuillans?,
including almost the whole Constitutional Respectability of
France, perorate nightly from their tribune; correspond through all
Post-offices; denouncing unquiet Jacobinism;
trusting well that its time is nigh
done. Much is uncertain, questionable: but if the Hereditary
Representative be wise and lucky, may one not, with a sanguine Gaelic
temper, hope that he will get in motion better or worse; that what is
wanting to him will gradually be gained and added?
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There is a hope, with some substance, that the lie can be sustained.
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For the rest, as we must repeat, in this building of the Constitutional
Fabric, especially in this Revision of it, nothing that one could think of
to give it new strength, especially to steady it, to give it permanence,
and even eternity, has been forgotten. Biennial Parliament, to be called
Legislative, Assemblée Législative;
with Seven Hundred and Forty-five
Members, chosen in a judicious manner by the 'active citizens' alone, and
even by electing of electors still more active: this, with privileges of
Parliament shall meet, self-authorized if need be, and self-dissolved;
shall grant money-supplies and talk; watch over the administration and
authorities; discharge for ever the functions of a Constitutional Great
Council, Collective Wisdom, and National Palaver,—as the Heavens will
enable. Our First biennial Parliament, which indeed has been a-choosing
since early in August, is now as good as chosen. Nay it has mostly got to
Paris: it arrived gradually;—not without pathetic greeting to its
venerable Parent, the now moribund Constituent; and sat there in the
Galleries, reverently listening; ready to begin, the instant the ground
were clear.
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The new legislature, a unicameral Legislative Assembly, specified by the
constitution, assembles.
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|
Then as to changes in the Constitution itself? This, impossible for any
Legislative, or common biennial Parliament, and possible solely for some
resuscitated Constituent or National Convention,—is evidently one of the
most ticklish points. The august moribund Assembly debated it for four
entire days. Some thought a change, or at least reviewal and new approval,
might be admissible in thirty years; some even went lower, down to twenty,
nay to fifteen. The august Assembly had once decided for thirty years; but
it revoked that, on better thoughts; and did not fix any date of time, but
merely some vague outline of a posture of circumstances, and on the whole
left the matter hanging. (Choix de Rapports, etc.
(Paris, 1825), vi. 239-317.)
Doubtless a National Convention can be assembled even within the
thirty years: yet one may hope, not; but that Legislatives, biennial
Parliaments of the common kind, with their limited faculty, and perhaps
quiet successive additions thereto, may suffice, for generations, or indeed
while computed Time runs.
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The constitution-amendment process was not explicitly dealt with, but left to
some future assembly called for that purpose.
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Furthermore, be it noted that no member of this Constituent has been, or
could be, elected to the new Legislative. So noble-minded were these Law-
makers! cry some: and Solon-like would banish themselves. So
splenetic [bad-tempered]!
cry more: each grudging the other, none daring to be outdone in self-denial
by the other. So unwise in either case! answer all practical men.
But consider this other self-denying ordinance, That none of us can be
King's Minister, or accept the smallest Court Appointment, for the space of
four, or at lowest (and on long debate and Revision), for the space of two
years! So moves the incorruptible seagreen Robespierre; with cheap
magnanimity he; and none dare be outdone by him. It was such a law, not so
superfluous then, that sent Mirabeau to the Gardens of Saint-Cloud, under
cloak of darkness, to that colloquy of the gods; and thwarted many things.
Happily and unhappily there is no Mirabeau now to thwart.
|
Members of the Constituent excluded themselves from the Legislative Assembly.
More important, the constitution forbade members of the legislature to
accept posts in the executive (the king's government), creating an
"us vs. them" environment.
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Welcomer meanwhile, welcome surely to all right hearts, is Lafayette's
chivalrous Amnesty.[131]
Welcome too is that hard-wrung
Union of Avignon[116];
which
has cost us, first and last, 'thirty sessions of debate,' and so much else:
may it at length prove lucky! Rousseau's statue is decreed: virtuous
Jean-Jacques, Evangelist of the Contrat Social. Not
Drouet? of Varennes;
nor worthy Lataille, master of the old world-famous Tennis Court in
Versailles, is forgotten; but each has his honourable mention, and due
reward in money. (Moniteur (in Hist. Parl. xi. 473.)
Whereupon, things
being all so neatly winded up, and the Deputations, and Messages, and royal
and other Ceremonials having rustled by; and the King having now
affectionately perorated about peace and tranquilisation, and members
having answered "Oui! oui!" with effusion, even with tears, — President
Thouret?,
he of the Law Reforms, rises, and, with a strong voice, utters
these memorable last-words: "The National Constituent Assembly declares
that it has finished its mission; and that its sittings are all ended."
Incorruptible Robespierre,
virtuous Pétion are borne home on the shoulders
of the people; with vivats heaven-high. The rest glide quietly to their
respective places of abode. It is the last afternoon of September, 1791;
on the morrow morning the new Legislative will begin.
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September 30, 1791. The Constituent Assembly adjourns sine die
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So, amid glitter of illuminated streets and Champs Elysées,
and crackle of
fireworks and glad deray, has the first National Assembly vanished;
dissolving, as they well say, into blank Time; and is no more. National
Assembly is gone, its work remaining; as all Bodies of men go, and as man
himself goes: it had its beginning, and must likewise have its end. A
Phantasm-Reality born of Time, as the rest of us are; flitting ever
backwards now on the tide of Time: to be long remembered of men. Very
strange Assemblages, Sanhedrims, Amphictyonics, Trades Unions, Ecumenic
Councils, Parliaments and Congresses, have met together on this Planet, and
dispersed again; but a stranger Assemblage than this august Constituent, or
with a stranger mission, perhaps never met there. Seen from the distance,
this also will be a miracle. Twelve Hundred human individuals, with the
Gospel of Jean-Jacques Rousseau in their pocket, congregating in the name
of Twenty-five Millions, with full assurance of faith, to 'make the
Constitution:' such sight, the acme and main product of the Eighteenth
Century, our World can witness once only. For Time is rich in wonders, in
monstrosities most rich; and is observed never to repeat himself, or any of
his Gospels: — surely least of all, this Gospel according to Jean-Jacques.
Once it was right and indispensable, since such had become the Belief of
men; but once also is enough.
|
Carlyle sees the Constituent Assembly and its mission — to provide a
constitution for a nation that already has one — as something that could
only happen in its own time and place. He would be proven very wrong within
his own lifetime.
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They have made the Constitution, these Twelve Hundred Jean-Jacques
Evangelists; not without result. Near twenty-nine months they sat, with
various fortune; in various capacity; — always, we may say, in that capacity
of carborne Caroccio?,
and miraculous Standard of the Revolt of Men, as a
Thing high and lifted up; whereon whosoever looked might hope healing.
They have seen much: cannons levelled on them; then suddenly, by
interposition of the Powers, the cannons drawn back; and a war-god
Broglie?
vanishing, in thunder not his own, amid the dust and downrushing of a
Bastille and Old Feudal France. They have suffered somewhat: Royal
Session, with rain and Oath of the Tennis-Court; Nights of Pentecost;
Insurrections of Women. Also have they not done somewhat? Made the
Constitution, and managed all things the while; passed, in these twenty-nine
months, 'twenty-five hundred Decrees,' which on the average is some
three for each day, including Sundays! Brevity, one finds, is possible, at
times: had not Moreau de
St. Mery?
to give three thousand orders before
rising from his seat? — There was valour (or value) in these men; and a kind
of faith, — were it only faith in this, That cobwebs are not cloth; that a
Constitution could be made. Cobwebs and chimeras ought verily to
disappear; for a Reality there is. Let formulas, soul-killing, and now
grown body-killing, insupportable, begone, in the name of Heaven and
Earth! — Time, as we say, brought forth these Twelve Hundred; Eternity was
before them, Eternity behind: they worked, as we all do, in the confluence
of Two Eternities; what work was given them. Say not that it was nothing
they did. Consciously they did somewhat; unconsciously how much! They had
their giants and their dwarfs, they accomplished their good and their evil;
they are gone, and return no more. Shall they not go with our blessing, in
these circumstances; with our mild farewell?
|
Carlyle summarizes the the accomplishments of the Constituent Assembly and
of the first 2-1/2 years of the revolution.
|
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By post, by diligence, on saddle or sole; they are gone: towards the four
winds! Not a few over the marches, to rank at Coblentz. Thither wended
Maury?,
among others; but in the end towards Rome, — to be clothed there in
red Cardinal plush; in falsehood as in a garment; pet son (her
last-born?)
of the Scarlet Woman.
Talleyrand-Perigord?,
excommunicated Constitutional
Bishop, will make his way to London; to be Ambassador, spite of the
Self-denying Law; brisk young Marquis
Chauvelin?
acting as Ambassador's-Cloak [deputy].
In London too, one finds Pétion the virtuous; harangued and haranguing,
pledging the wine-cup with Constitutional Reform Clubs, in solemn
tavern-dinner.
Incorruptible Robespierre retires for a little to native Arras:
seven short weeks of quiet; the last appointed him in this world. Public
Accuser in the Paris Department, acknowledged highpriest of the Jacobins;
the glass of incorruptible thin Patriotism, for his narrow emphasis is
loved of all the narrow, — this man seems to be rising, somewhither? He
sells his small heritage at Arras; accompanied by a Brother and a Sister,
he returns, scheming out with resolute timidity a small sure destiny for
himself and them, to his old lodging, at the Cabinet-maker's, in the Rue
St. Honore: — O resolute-tremulous incorruptible seagreen man, towards
what
a destiny!
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Some constitution-makers disperse, some emigrate. Robespierre just takes
a short vacation.
|
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Lafayette, for his part, will lay down the command. He retires
Cincinnatus?-like
to his hearth and farm; but soon leaves them again. Our
National Guard, however, shall henceforth have no one Commandant; but all
Colonels shall command in succession, month about. Other Deputies we have
met, or Dame de
Staël?
has met, 'sauntering in a thoughtful manner;'
perhaps
uncertain what to do. Some, as
Barnave?, the
Lameths?, and their
Duport?,
will continue here in Paris: watching the new biennial Legislative,
Parliament the First; teaching it to walk, if so might be; and the Court to
lead it.
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Some hang around Paris.
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Thus these: sauntering in a thoughtful manner; travelling by post or
diligence, — whither Fate beckons. Giant Mirabeau slumbers in the Pantheon
of Great Men: and France? and Europe? — The brass-lunged Hawkers sing
"Grand Acceptation, Monarchic Constitution" through these gay crowds: the
Morrow, grandson of Yesterday, must be what it can, as To-day its father
is. Our new biennial Legislative begins to constitute itself on the first
of October, 1791.
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Government under the constitution begins October 1, 1791.
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If the august Constituent Assembly itself, fixing the regards of the
Universe, could, at the present distance of time and place, gain
comparatively small attention from us, how much less can this poor
Legislative! It has its Right Side and its Left; the less Patriotic and
the more, for Aristocrats exist not here or now: it spouts and speaks:
listens to Reports, reads Bills and Laws; works in its vocation, for a
season: but the history of France, one finds, is seldom or never there.
Unhappy Legislative, what can History do with it; if not drop a tear over
it, almost in silence? First of the two-year Parliaments of France, which,
if Paper Constitution and oft-repeated National Oath could avail aught,
were to follow in softly-strong indissoluble sequence while Time ran, — it
had to vanish dolefully within one year; and there came no second like it.
Alas! your biennial Parliaments in endless indissoluble sequence; they, and
all that Constitutional Fabric, built with such explosive Federation Oaths,
and its top-stone brought out with dancing and variegated radiance, went to
pieces, like frail crockery, in the crash of things; and already, in eleven
short months, were in that Limbo near the
Moon[132],
with the ghosts of other
Chimeras. There, except for rare specific purposes, let them rest, in
melancholy peace.
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If the National Assembly was of secondary historical importance, the
Legislative was less. It lasted 11 months and at the end less than
half of its 745 members sat. Its failure is even greater given the
expectations for it.
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On the whole, how unknown is a man to himself; or a public Body of men to
itself! Aesop's fly sat on the chariot-wheel, exclaiming, What a dust I do
raise! Great Governors, clad in purple with fasces and insignia, are
governed by their valets, by the pouting of their women and children; or,
in Constitutional countries, by the paragraphs of their Able Editors. Say
not, I am this or that; I am doing this or that! For thou knowest it not,
thou knowest only the name it as yet goes by. A purple Nebuchadnezzar
rejoices to feel himself now verily Emperor of this great Babylon which he
has builded; and is a nondescript biped-quadruped, on the eve of a seven-
years course of grazing! These Seven Hundred and Forty-five elected
individuals doubt not but they are the First biennial Parliament, come to
govern France by parliamentary eloquence: and they are what? And they
have come to do what? Things foolish and not wise!
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Carlyle notes the commonplace that we never know the result of enterprise
when we set out on it.
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It is much lamented by many that this First Biennial had no members of the
old Constituent in it, with their experience of parties and parliamentary
tactics; that such was their foolish Self-denying Law. Most surely, old
members of the Constituent had been welcome to us here. But, on the other
hand, what old or what new members of any Constituent under the Sun could
have effectually profited? There are First biennial Parliaments so
postured as to be, in a sense, beyond wisdom; where wisdom and folly differ
only in degree, and wreckage and dissolution are the appointed issue for
both.
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Carlyle speculates that the makeup of the Legislative had little to do with
it failures.
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Old-Constituents, your Barnaves, Lameths and the like, for whom a special
Gallery has been set apart, where they may sit in honour and listen, are in
the habit of sneering at these new Legislators; (Dumouriez,
ii. 150, etc.)
but let not us! The poor Seven Hundred and Forty-five, sent together by
the active citizens of France, are what they could be; do what is fated
them. That they are of Patriot temper we can well understand. Aristocrat
Noblesse had fled over the marches, or sat brooding silent in their unburnt
Châteaus; small prospect had they in Primary Electoral Assemblies. What
with Flights to Varennes, what with Days of Poniards, with plot after plot,
the People are left to themselves; the People must needs choose Defenders
of the People, such as can be had. Choosing, as they also will ever do,
'if not the ablest man, yet the man ablest to be
chosen!'[133]
Fervour of
character, decided Patriot-Constitutional feeling; these are qualities:
but free utterance, mastership in tongue-fence; this is the quality of
qualities. Accordingly one finds, with little astonishment, in this First
Biennial, that as many as Four hundred Members are of the Advocate or
Attorney species. Men who can speak, if there be aught to speak: nay here
are men also who can think, and even act. Candour will say of this ill-fated
First French Parliament that it wanted not its modicum of talent, its
modicum of honesty; that it, neither in the one respect nor in the other,
sank below the average of Parliaments, but rose above the average. Let
average Parliaments, whom the world does not guillotine,
and cast forth to
long infamy, be thankful not to themselves but to their stars!
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Though the Legislative was not an assembly of great men, it was no worse
than many another more successful legislature.
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France, as we say, has once more done what it could: fervid men have come
together from wide separation; for strange issues. Fiery
Max Isnard?
is come, from the utmost South-East; fiery Claude
Fauchet?,
Te-Deum Fauchet
Bishop of Calvados, from the utmost North-West. No Mirabeau now sits here,
who had swallowed formulas: our only Mirabeau now is
Danton?,
working as
yet out of doors; whom some call 'Mirabeau of the Sansculottes.'
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The character of the Legislative is that, though it has capable men,
it has none who are natural leaders.
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Nevertheless we have our gifts, — especially of speech and logic. An
eloquent
Vergniaud?
we have; most mellifluous yet most impetuous of public
speakers; from the region named Gironde, of the Garonne: a man
unfortunately of indolent habits; who will sit playing with your children,
when he ought to be scheming and perorating. Sharp bustling
Guadet?;
considerate grave
Gensonné;
kind-sparkling mirthful young
Ducos?;
Valazé?
doomed to a sad end: all these likewise are of that Gironde, or Bourdeaux
region: men of fervid Constitutional principles; of quick talent,
irrefragable logic, clear respectability; who will have the Reign of
Liberty establish itself, but only by respectable methods. Round whom
others of like temper will gather; known by and by as Girondins,
to the
sorrowing wonder of the world. Of which sort note
Condorcet?,
Marquis and
Philosopher; who has worked at much, at Paris Municipal Constitution,
Differential Calculus, Newspaper Chronique de Paris,
Biography, Philosophy;
and now sits here as two-years Senator: a notable Condorcet, with stoical
Roman face, and fiery heart; 'volcano hid under snow;' styled likewise, in
irreverent language, 'mouton enrage [raging lamb],'
peaceablest of creatures bitten
rabid! Or note, lastly, Jean-Pierre
Brissot?;
whom Destiny, long working
noisily with him, has hurled hither, say, to have done with him. A
biennial Senator he too; nay, for the present, the king of such. Restless,
scheming, scribbling Brissot; who took to himself the style de Warville,
heralds know not in the least why; — unless it were that the father of him
did, in an unexceptionable manner, perform Cookery and Vintnery in the
Village of Ouarville?
A man of the windmill species, that grinds always,
turning towards all winds; not in the steadiest manner.
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Carlyle introduces the chief Girondins of the Legislative Assembly.
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In all these men there is talent, faculty to work; and they will do it:
working and shaping, not without effect,
though alas not in marble, only in
quicksand! — But the highest faculty of them all remains yet to be
mentioned; or indeed has yet to unfold itself for mention: Captain
Hippolyte Carnot?[134],
sent hither from the Pas de Calais; with his cold
mathematical head, and silent stubbornness of will: iron Carnot,
far-planning, imperturbable, unconquerable; who, in the hour of need, shall not
be found wanting. His hair is yet black; and it shall grow grey, under
many kinds of fortune, bright and troublous; and with iron aspect this man
shall face them all.
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He singles out for particular mention and praise
Lazare Nicolas (not Hippolyte)
Carnot.
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Nor is Côté Droit, and band of King's friends,
wanting:
Vaublanc?,
Dumas?,
Jaucourt?
the honoured Chevalier; who love Liberty, yet with Monarchy over
it; and speak fearlessly according to that faith; — whom the thick-coming
hurricanes will sweep away. With them, let a new military
Theodore Lameth?
be named; — were it only for his two Brothers' sake, who look down on him,
approvingly there, from the Old-Constituents' Gallery. Frothy professing
Pastorets?,
honey-mouthed conciliatory
Lamourettes?,
and speechless nameless
individuals sit plentiful, as Moderates, in the middle. Still less is a
Côté Gauche wanting:
extreme Left; sitting on the topmost benches, as if
aloft on its speculatory Height or Mountain, which will become a practical
fulminatory Height, and make the name of Mountain famous-infamous to all
times and lands.
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As in the Constitutional Assembly, there are prominent royalists and
radicals. In this assembly, the Radicals (called the Mountain from their
preferred seats) will prevail.
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Honour waits not on this Mountain; nor as yet even loud dishonour. Gifts
it boasts not, nor graces, of speaking or of thinking; solely this one gift
of assured faith, of audacity that will defy the Earth and the Heavens.
Foremost here are the Cordelier Trio: hot
Merlin?
from Thionville, hot
Bazire?,
Attorneys both;
Chabot?,
disfrocked Capuchin, skilful in
agio?. Lawyer
Lacroix?,
who wore once as subaltern the single epaulette, has loud
lungs and a hungry heart. There too is
Couthon?,
little dreaming what he
is; — whom a sad chance has paralysed in the lower extremities. For, it
seems, he sat once a whole night, not warm in his true love's bower (who
indeed was by law another's), but sunken to the middle in a cold peat-bog,
being hunted out; quaking for his life, in the cold quaking morass;
(Dumouriez, ii. 370.)
and goes now on crutches to the end.
Cambon?
likewise, in whom slumbers undeveloped such a finance-talent for printing
of Assignats; Father of Paper-money; who, in the hour of menace, shall
utter this stern sentence, 'War to the Manorhouse, peace to the Hut, Guerre
aux Châteaux, paix aux Chaumières!'
(Choix de Rapports, xi. 25.)
Lecointre?,
the intrepid Draper of Versailles, is welcome here; known since
the Opera-Repast and Insurrection of Women.
Thuriot?
too; Elector Thuriot,
who stood in the embrasures of the Bastille, and saw Saint-Antoine rising
in mass; who has many other things to see. Last and grimmest of all note old
Ruhl?,
with his brown dusky face and long white hair; of Alsatian
Lutheran breed; a man whom age and book-learning have not taught; who,
haranguing the old men of Rheims, shall hold up the Sacred Ampulla
(Heaven-sent, where from Clovis and all Kings have been anointed) as a mere
worthless oil-bottle, and dash it to sherds on the pavement there; who,
alas, shall dash much to sherds, and finally his own wild head, by pistol-
shot, and so end it.
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Carlyle introduces some members of the radical factions.
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Such lava welters redhot in the bowels of this Mountain; unknown to the
world and to itself! A mere commonplace Mountain hitherto; distinguished
from the Plain chiefly by its superior barrenness,
its baldness of look:
at the utmost it may, to the most observant, perceptibly smoke.
For as yet
all lies so solid, peaceable; and doubts not, as was said, that it will
endure while Time runs. Do not all love Liberty and the Constitution? All
heartily; — and yet with degrees. Some, as Chevalier Jaucourt and his Right
Side, may love Liberty less than Royalty, were the trial made; others, as
Brissot and his Left Side, may love it more than Royalty. Nay again of
these latter some may love Liberty more than Law itself; others not more.
Parties will unfold themselves; no mortal as yet knows how. Forces work
within these men and without: dissidence grows opposition; ever widening;
waxing into incompatibility and internecine feud: till the strong is
abolished by a stronger; himself in his turn by a strongest! Who can help
it? Jaucourt and his Monarchists, Feuillans, or Moderates; Brissot and his
Brissotins, Jacobins, or Girondins; these, with the Cordelier Trio, and all
men, must work what is appointed them, and in the way appointed them.
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There are not discrete parties, but flavors of opinion area already evident,
and the separation will widen.
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And to think what fate these poor Seven Hundred and Forty-five are
assembled, most unwittingly, to meet! Let no heart be so hard as not to
pity them. Their soul's wish was to live and work as the First of the
French Parliaments: and make the Constitution march. Did they not, at
their very instalment, go through the most affecting Constitutional
ceremony, almost with tears? The Twelve Eldest are sent solemnly to fetch
the Constitution itself, the printed book of the Law. Archivist
Camus?, an
Old-Constituent appointed Archivist, he and the Ancient Twelve, amid blare
of military pomp and clangour, enter, bearing the divine Book: and
President and all Legislative Senators, laying their hand on the same,
successively take the Oath, with cheers and heart-effusion, universal
three-times-three. (Moniteur, Seance du 4 Octobre 1791.)
In this manner
they begin their Session. Unhappy mortals! For, that same day, his
Majesty having received their Deputation of welcome, as seemed, rather
drily, the Deputation cannot but feel slighted, cannot but lament such
slight: and thereupon our cheering swearing First Parliament sees itself,
on the morrow, obliged to explode into fierce retaliatory sputter, of
anti-royal Enactment as to how they, for their part,
will receive Majesty; and
how Majesty shall not be called Sire any more, except they please: and
then, on the following day, to recall this Enactment of theirs, as too
hasty, and a mere sputter though not unprovoked.
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The legislature begins in unanimous devotion to the constitution and
distaste for the King's cool reception.
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An effervescent well-intentioned set of Senators; too combustible, where
continual sparks are flying! Their History is a series of sputters and
quarrels; true desire to do their function, fatal impossibility to do it.
Denunciations, reprimandings of King's Ministers, of traitors supposed and
real; hot rage and fulmination against fulminating Emigrants; terror of
Austrian Kaiser, of 'Austrian Committee' in the Tuileries itself: rage and
haunting terror, haste and dim desperate bewilderment! — Haste, we say; and
yet the Constitution had provided against haste. No Bill can be passed
till it have been printed, till it have been thrice read, with intervals of
eight days; — 'unless the Assembly shall beforehand decree that there is
urgency.' Which, accordingly, the Assembly, scrupulous of the
Constitution, never omits to do: Considering this, and also considering
that, and then that other, the Assembly decrees always
'qu'il y a urgence;'
and thereupon 'the Assembly, having decreed that there is urgence,' is free
to decree — what indispensable distracted thing seems best to it. Two
thousand and odd decrees, as men reckon, within Eleven months!
(Montgaillard, iii. 1. 237.)
The haste of the Constituent seemed great;
but this is treble-quick. For the time itself is rushing treble-quick; and
they have to keep pace with that. Unhappy Seven Hundred and Forty-five:
true-patriotic, but so combustible; being fired, they must needs fling
fire: Senate of touchwood and rockets, in a world of smoke-storm, with
sparks wind-driven continually flying!
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There is a sense of urgency but not of direction.
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Or think, on the other hand, looking forward some months, of that scene
they call
Baiser de
Lamourette?!
The dangers of the country are now grown
imminent, immeasurable; National Assembly, hope of France, is divided
against itself. In such extreme circumstances, honey-mouthed Abbé
Lamourette, new Bishop of Lyons, rises, whose name, l'amourette,
signifies
the sweetheart, or Delilah doxy, — he rises, and, with pathetic honied
eloquence, calls on all august Senators to forget mutual griefs and
grudges, to swear a new oath, and unite as brothers. Whereupon they all,
with vivats, embrace and swear; Left Side confounding itself with Right;
barren Mountain rushing down to fruitful Plain, Pastoret into the arms of
Condorcet, injured to the breast of injurer, with tears; and all swearing
that whosoever wishes either Feuillant Two-Chamber Monarchy or
Extreme-Jacobin Republic, or any thing but the Constitution and that only,
shall be
anathema marantha[135].
(Moniteur, Seance du 6 Juillet 1792.)
Touching to
behold! For, literally on the morrow morning, they must again quarrel,
driven by Fate; and their sublime reconcilement is called derisively Baiser
de L'amourette, or Delilah Kiss.
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The transience of political unity is illustrated in the Lamourette episode in
July, 1792.
|
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Like fated
Eteocles-Polynices Brothers[136],
embracing, though in vain; weeping
that they must not love, that they must hate only, and die by each other's
hands! Or say, like doomed Familiar Spirits; ordered, by Art Magic under
penalties, to do harder than twist ropes of sand: 'to make the
Constitution march.' If the Constitution would but march! Alas, the
Constitution will not stir. It falls on its face; they tremblingly lift it
on end again: march, thou gold Constitution! The Constitution will not
march. —"He shall march, by—!" said kind Uncle Toby, and even swore. The
Corporal answered mournfully: "He will never march in this
world.[137]"
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The legislature could not make a constitution march that had no legs.
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A constitution, as we often say, will march when it images, if not the old
Habits and Beliefs of the Constituted; then accurately their Rights, or
better indeed, their Mights; — for these two, well-understood, are they not
one and the same? The old Habits of France are gone: her new Rights and
Mights are not yet ascertained, except in Paper-theorem; nor can be, in any
sort, till she have tried. Till she have measured herself, in fell
death-grip, and were it in utmost preternatural spasm of madness, with
Principalities and Powers, with the upper and the under, internal and
external; with the Earth and
Tophet?
and the very Heaven! Then will she
know. — Three things bode ill for the marching of this French Constitution:
the French People; the French King; thirdly the French Noblesse and an
assembled European World.
|
Carlyle believes the Constituent created a constitution because
it was still too early to record the organic constitution of France.
|
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But quitting generalities, what strange Fact is this, in the far South-West,
towards which the eyes of all men do now, in the end of October, bend
themselves? A tragical combustion, long smoking and smouldering
unluminous, has now burst into flame there.
|
October, 1791.
|
|
Hot is that Southern Provencal blood: alas, collisions, as was once said,
must occur in a career of Freedom; different directions will produce such;
nay different velocities in the same direction will!
To much that went on
there, History, busied elsewhere, would not specially give heed: to
troubles of Uzez, troubles of Nismes[138],
Protestant and Catholic, Patriot and
Aristocrat; to troubles of
Marseilles, Montpelier, Arles[139];
to Aristocrat
Camp of Jalès[140],
that wondrous real-imaginary Entity, now fading pale-dim,
then always again glowing forth deep-hued (in the Imagination mainly); —
ominous magical, 'an Aristocrat picture of war done naturally!' All this
was a tragical deadly combustion, with plot and riot, tumult by night and
by day; but a dark combustion, not luminous, not noticed; which now,
however, one cannot help noticing.
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The "hot-blooded" southern provinces had been in turmoil since 1789.
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| |
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Above all places, the unluminous combustion in Avignon and the Comtat
Venaissin was fierce. Papal Avignon, with its Castle rising sheer over the
Rhone-stream; beautifullest Town, with its purple vines and gold-orange
groves: why must foolish old rhyming
Réné?,
the last Sovereign of Provence,
bequeath it to the Pope and Gold Tiara, not rather to Louis Eleventh with
the Leaden Virgin in his hatband? For good and for evil! Popes, Anti-popes,
with their pomp, have dwelt in that Castle of Avignon rising sheer
over the Rhone-stream: there
Laura de Sade?
went to hear mass; her
Petrarch?
twanging and singing by the Fountain of Vaucluse hard by, surely in a most
melancholy manner. This was in the old days.
|
Avignon and the surrounding county of Venaissin had seen its share of
history and turmoil.
|
|
And now in these new days, such issues do come from a squirt of the pen by
some foolish rhyming Réné, after centuries,
this is what we have:
Jourdan
Coupe-tête?,
leading to siege and warfare an Army, from three to fifteen
thousand strong, called the Brigands of Avignon; which title they
themselves accept, with the addition of an epithet, 'The brave Brigands of
Avignon!' It is even so. Jourdan the Headsman fled hither from that
Châtelet Inquest, from that Insurrection of Women; and began dealing in
madder [a red dye]; but the scene was rife in other than dye-stuffs;
so Jourdan shut
his madder shop, and has risen, for he was the man to do it. The
tile-beard of Jourdan is shaven off;
his fat visage has got coppered and studded
with black carbuncles; the
Silenus?
trunk is swollen with drink and high
living: he wears blue National uniform with epaulettes, 'an enormous
sabre, two horse-pistols crossed in his belt, and other two smaller,
sticking from his pockets;' styles himself General, and is the tyrant of
men. (Dampmartin, Evenemens, i. 267.)
Consider this one fact, O Reader;
and what sort of facts must have preceded it, must accompany it! Such
things come of old Réné;
and of the question which has risen, Whether
Avignon cannot now cease wholly to be Papal and become French and free?
|
In autumn, 1791, an army of Jacobin brigands has formed Avignon under the
leadership of the escaped felon Jourdan. This uprising is more anti-Italian
than pro-revolution.
|
|
For some twenty-five months the confusion has lasted. Say three months of
arguing; then seven of raging; then finally some fifteen months now of
fighting, and even of hanging. For already in February 1790, the Papal
Aristocrats had set up four gibbets, for a sign; but the People rose in
June, in retributive frenzy; and, forcing the public Hangman to act, hanged
four Aristocrats, on each Papal gibbet a Papal
Haman?.
Then were Avignon
Emigrations, Papal Aristocrats emigrating over the Rhone River; demission
of Papal Consul, flight, victory: re-entrance of Papal Legate, truce, and
new onslaught; and the various turns of war. Petitions there were to
National Assembly; Congresses of Townships; three-score and odd Townships
voting for French Reunion, and the blessings of Liberty; while some twelve
of the smaller, manipulated by Aristocrats, gave vote the other way: with
shrieks and discord! Township against Township, Town against Town:
Carpentras, long jealous of Avignon, is now turned out in open war with
it; — and Jourdan Coupe-tête, your first General [Patrix]
being killed in mutiny,
closes his dye-shop; and does there visibly, with siege-artillery, above
all with bluster and tumult, with the 'brave Brigands of Avignon,'
beleaguer the rival Town, for two months, in the face of the world!
|
Taking up the cause of the French reunionists, Jourdan consolidates Jacobin
control of the region.
|
|
Feats were done, doubt it not, far-famed in Parish History; but to
Universal History unknown. Gibbets we see rise, on the one side and on the
other; and wretched carcasses swinging there, a dozen in the row; wretched
Mayor of Vaison buried before dead. (Barbaroux,
Memoires, p. 26.) The
fruitful seedfields lie unreaped, the vineyards trampled down; there is red
cruelty, madness of universal choler and gall. Havoc and anarchy
everywhere; a combustion most fierce, but unlucent, not to be noticed
here! — Finally, as we saw, on the 14th of September last, the National
Constituent Assembly, having sent Commissioners and heard them;
(Lescène
Desmaisons: Compte rendu à l'Assemblée Nationale,
10 Septembre 1791 (Choix des Rapports, vii. 273-93).)
having heard Petitions, held Debates, month
after month ever since August 1789; and on the whole 'spent thirty
sittings' on this matter, did solemnly decree that Avignon and the Comtat
were incorporated with France, and His Holiness the Pope should have what
indemnity was reasonable.
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In one of its first acts, the Republic claims Avignon and Venaissin.
|
| |
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And so hereby all is amnestied and finished? Alas, when madness of choler
has gone through the blood of men, and gibbets have swung on this side and
on that, what will a parchment Decree and Lafayette Amnesty do? Oblivious
Lethe flows not above ground! Papal Aristocrats and Patriot Brigands are
still an eye-sorrow to each other; suspected, suspicious, in what they do
and forbear. The august Constituent Assembly is gone but a fortnight,
when, on Sunday the Sixteenth morning of October 1791, the unquenched
combustion suddenly becomes luminous! For Anti-constitutional Placards are
up, and the Statue of the Virgin is said to have shed tears, and grown red.
(Procès-verbal de la Commune d'Avignon, etc.
(in Hist. Parl. xii. 419-23).)
Wherefore, on that morning, Patriot l'Escuyer, one of our 'six leading
Patriots,' having taken counsel with his brethren and General Jourdan,
determines on going to Church, in company with a friend or two: not to
hear mass, which he values little; but to meet all the Papalists there in a
body, nay to meet that same weeping Virgin, for it is the Cordeliers
Church; and give them a word of admonition. Adventurous errand; which has
the fatallest issue! What L'Escuyer's word of admonition might be no
History records; but the answer to it was a shrieking howl from the
Aristocrat Papal worshippers, many of them women. A thousand-voiced shriek
and menace; which as L'Escuyer did not fly, became a thousand-handed hustle
and jostle; a thousand-footed kick, with tumblings and tramplings, with the
pricking of semstresses stilettos, scissors, and female pointed
instruments. Horrible to behold; the ancient Dead, and Petrarchan Laura,
sleeping round it there; (Ugo Foscolo, Essay on Petrarch,
p. 35.) high
Altar and burning tapers looking down on it; the Virgin quite tearless, and
of the natural stone-colour! — L'Escuyer's friend or two rush off, like
Job's Messengers, for Jourdan and the National Force. But heavy Jourdan
will seize the Town-Gates first; does not run treble-fast, as he might: on
arriving at the Cordeliers Church, the Church is silent, vacant; L'Escuyer,
all alone, lies there, swimming in his blood, at the foot of the high
Altar; pricked with scissors; trodden, massacred; — gives one dumb sob, and
gasps out his miserable life for evermore.
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Reunion does not end dissent. L'Escuyer is killed in church by pro-Italian
parisioners.
|
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Sight to stir the heart of any man; much more of many men, self-styled
Brigands of Avignon! The corpse of L'Escuyer, stretched on a bier, the
ghastly head girt with laurel, is borne through the streets; with many-voiced
unmelodious Nenia; funeral-wail still deeper than it is loud! The
copper-face of Jourdan, of bereft Patriotism, has grown black. Patriot
Municipality despatches official Narrative and tidings to Paris; orders
numerous or innumerable arrestments for inquest and perquisition.
Aristocrats male and female are haled to the Castle; lie crowded in
subterranean dungeons there, bemoaned by the hoarse rushing of the Rhone;
cut out from help.
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The results is mass arrests of aristocrats.
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So lie they; waiting inquest and perquisition. Alas! with a Jourdan
Headsman for Generalissimo, with his copper-face grown black, and armed
Brigand Patriots chanting their
Nenia,
the inquest is likely to be brief.
On the next day and the next, let Municipality consent or not, a Brigand
Court-Martial establishes itself in the subterranean stories of the Castle
of Avignon; Brigand Executioners, with naked sabre, waiting at the door,
for a Brigand verdict. Short judgment, no appeal! There is Brigand wrath
and vengeance; not unrefreshed by brandy. Close by is the Dungeon of the
Glacière, or Ice-Tower:
there may be deeds done—? For which language has
no name! — Darkness and the shadow of horrid cruelty envelopes these Castle
Dungeons, that Glaciére
Tower: clear only that many have entered, that few
have returned. Jourdan and the Brigands, supreme now over Municipals, over
all Authorities Patriot or Papal, reign in Avignon, waited on by Terror and
Silence.
|
Most of those imprisoned are murdered in the Massacre of the Glaciére.
This predates the September Massacres in Paris by 10 months.
|
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The result of all which is that, on the 15th of November 1791, we behold
Friend Dampmartin, and subalterns beneath him, and General Choisi above
him, with Infantry and Cavalry, and proper cannon-carriages rattling in
front, with spread banners, to the sound of fife and drum, wend, in a
deliberate formidable manner, towards that sheer Castle Rock, towards those
broad Gates of Avignon; three new National-Assembly Commissioners following
at safe distance in the rear. (Dampmartin, i. 251-94.)
Avignon, summoned
in the name of Assembly and Law, flings its Gates wide open; Choisi with
the rest, Dampmartin and the Bons Enfans, 'Good Boys of
Baufremont,' so
they name these brave Constitutional Dragoons, known to them of old, — do
enter, amid shouts and scattered flowers. To the joy of all honest
persons; to the terror only of Jourdan Headsman and the Brigands. Nay next
we behold carbuncled swollen Jourdan himself shew copper-face, with sabre
and four pistols; affecting to talk high: engaging, meanwhile, to
surrender the Castle that instant. So the Choisi Grenadiers enter with him
there. They start and stop, passing that Glacière,
snuffing its horrible
breath; with wild yell, with cries of "Cut the Butcher down!" — and Jourdan
has to whisk himself through secret passages, and instantaneously vanish.
|
November 15, 1791.
A force of Republicans at last reaches Avignon and enters it. Jourdan
flees.
|
|
Be the mystery of iniquity laid bare then! A Hundred and Thirty Corpses,
of men, nay of women and even children (for the trembling mother, hastily
seized, could not leave her infant), lie heaped in that Glacière;
putrid,
under putridities: the horror of the world. For three days there is
mournful lifting out, and recognition; amid the cries and movements of a
passionate Southern people, now kneeling in prayer, now storming in wild
pity and rage: lastly there is solemn sepulture, with muffled drums,
religious requiem, and all the people's wail and tears. Their Massacred
rest now in holy ground; buried in one grave.
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The murdered aristocrats are found and buried.
|
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And Jourdan Coupe-tête?
Him also we behold again, after a day or two: in
flight, through the most romantic Petrarchan hill-country; vehemently
spurring his nag; young Ligonnet, a brisk youth of Avignon, with Choisi
Dragoons, close in his rear! With such swollen mass of a rider no nag can
run to advantage. The tired nag, spur-driven, does take the River Sorgue;
but sticks in the middle of it; firm on that chiaro fondo di
Sorga [Petrarch];
and
will proceed no further for spurring! Young Ligonnet dashes up; the
Copper-face menaces and bellows, draws pistol, perhaps even snaps it; is
nevertheless seized by the collar; is tied firm, ankles under horse's
belly, and ridden back to Avignon, hardly to be saved from massacre on the
streets there. (Dampmartin, ubi supra.)
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Jourdan is captured and returned to Avignon.
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Such is the combustion of Avignon and the South-West, when it becomes
luminous! Long loud debate is in the august Legislative, in the
Mother-Society as to what now shall be done with it. Amnesty, cry eloquent
Vergniaud and all Patriots: let there be mutual pardon and repentance,
restoration, pacification, and if so might any how be, an end! Which vote
ultimately prevails. So the South-West smoulders and welters again in an
'Amnesty,' or Non-remembrance, which alas cannot but remember, no Lethe
flowing above ground! Jourdan himself remains unchanged; gets loose again
as one not yet gallows-ripe; nay, as we transciently discern from the
distance, is 'carried in triumph through the cities of the South.'
(Deux
Amis vii. (Paris, 1797), pp. 59-71.) What things men carry!
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Amnesty is granted all involved, including Jourdan.
|
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With which transient glimpse, of a Copper-faced Portent faring in this
manner through the cities of the South, we must quit these regions; — and
let them smoulder. They want not their Aristocrats; proud old Nobles, not
yet emigrated. Arles has its 'Chiffonne,' so, in symbolical cant, they
name that Aristocrat Secret-Association; Arles has its pavements piled up,
by and by, into Aristocrat barricades. Against which
Rebecqui?,
the
hot-clear Patriot, must lead Marseilles with cannon. The Bar of Iron has not
yet risen to the top in the Bay of Marseilles; neither have these hot Sons
of the Phoceans submitted to be slaves. By clear management and hot
instance, Rebecqui dissipates that Chiffonne, without bloodshed;
restores
the pavement of Arles. He sails in Coast-barks, this Rebecqui,
scrutinising suspicious Martello-towers, with the keen eye of Patriotism;
marches overland with despatch, singly, or in force; to City after City;
dim scouring far and wide; (Barbaroux, p. 21;
Hist. Parl. xiii. 421-4.) —
argues, and if it must be, fights. For there is much to do; Jalès
itself
is looking suspicious. So that Legislator
Fauchet?,
after debate on it, has
to propose Commissioners and a Camp on the Plain of Beaucaire: with or
without result.
|
There is still plenty of turmoil in the South, requiring the attention
of representatives on mission like Rebecqui.
|
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Of all which, and much else, let us note only this small consequence, that
young Barbaroux?,
Advocate, Town-Clerk of Marseilles, being charged to have
these things remedied, arrived at Paris in the month of February 1792. The
beautiful and brave: young Spartan, ripe in energy, not ripe in wisdom;
over whose black doom there shall flit nevertheless a certain ruddy
fervour, streaks of bright Southern tint, not wholly swallowed of Death!
Note also that the Rolands of Lyons are again in Paris; for the second and
final time. King's Inspectorship is abrogated at Lyons, as elsewhere:
Roland has his retiring-pension to claim, if attainable; has Patriot
friends to commune with; at lowest, has a book to publish. That young
Barbaroux and the Rolands came together; that elderly Spartan Roland liked,
or even loved the young Spartan, and was loved by him, one can fancy: and
Madame—? Breathe not, thou poison-breath, Evil-speech! That soul is
taintless, clear, as the mirror-sea. And yet if they too did look into
each other's eyes, and each, in silence, in tragical renunciance, did find
that the other was all too lovely? Honi soit! [It is their right.]
She calls him 'beautiful as
Antinous'?:
he 'will speak elsewhere of that astonishing woman.' — A Madame
d'Udon (or some such name, for Dumont does not recollect quite clearly)
gives copious Breakfast to the Brissotin Deputies and us Friends of
Freedom, at her house in the Place Vendôme;
with temporary celebrity, with
graces and wreathed smiles; not without cost. There, amid wide babble and
jingle, our plan of Legislative Debate is settled for the day, and much
counselling held. Strict Roland is seen there, but does not go often.
(Dumont, Souvenirs, p. 374.)
|
Out of insurrection in the South come a few and temporary leaders,
Barbaroux and Roland among them.
|
|
Such are our inward troubles; seen in the Cities of the South; extant, seen
or unseen, in all cities and districts, North as well as South. For in all
are Aristocrats, more or less malignant; watched by Patriotism; which
again, being of various shades, from light Fayettist-Feuillant down to
deep-somber Jacobin, has to watch itself!
|
France is by no means settled at the end of 1791.
|
|
Directories of Departments, what we call County Magistracies, being chosen
by Citizens of a too 'active' class, are found to pull one way;
Municipalities, Town Magistracies, to pull the other way. In all places
too are Dissident Priests; whom the Legislative will have to deal with:
contumacious individuals, working on that angriest of passions; plotting,
enlisting for Coblentz; or suspected of plotting: fuel of a universal
unconstitutional heat. What to do with them? They may be conscientious as
well as contumacious: gently they should be dealt with, and yet it must be
speedily. In unilluminated La Vendée
the simple are like to be seduced by
them; many a simple peasant, a
Cathelineau?
the wool-dealer wayfaring
meditative with his wool-packs, in these hamlets, dubiously shakes his
head! Two Assembly Commissioners went thither last Autumn; considerate
Gensonné?,
not yet called to be a Senator;
Gallois?,
an editorial man. These
Two, consulting with General
Dumouriez?,
spake and worked, softly, with
judgment; they have hushed down the irritation, and produced a soft
Report, — for the time.
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There are many local conflicts, including troubling unrest in the
Vendée.
|
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The General himself doubts not in the least but he can keep peace there;
being an able man. He passes these frosty months among the pleasant people
of Niort, occupies 'tolerably handsome apartments in the Castle of Niort,'
and tempers the minds of men. (Dumouriez, ii. 129.)
Why is there but one
Dumouriez? Elsewhere you find South or North, nothing but untempered
obscure jarring; which breaks forth ever and anon into open clangour of
riot. Southern Perpignan has its tocsin, by torch light; with rushing and
onslaught: Northern Caen not less, by daylight; with Aristocrats ranged in
arms at Places of Worship; Departmental compromise proving impossible;
breaking into musketry and a Plot discovered!
(Hist. Parl. xii. 131, 141; xiii. 114, 417.)
Add Hunger too: for Bread, always dear, is getting
dearer: not so much as Sugar can be had; for good reasons. Poor Simoneau,
Mayor of Etampes, in this Northern region, hanging out his Red Flag in some
riot of grains, is trampled to death by a hungry exasperated People. What
a trade this of Mayor, in these times! Mayor of Saint-Denis hung at the
Lanterne, by Suspicion and Dyspepsia, as we saw long since; Mayor of
Vaison, as we saw lately, buried before dead; and now this poor Simoneau,
the Tanner, of Etampes, — whom legal Constitutionalism will not forget.
|
If Dumouriez is keeping the lid on Britanny, it is coming off elsewhere.
The shortage of bread is getting worse and the British blockade means
there is no sugar to be had.
|
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With factions, suspicions, want of bread and sugar, it is verily what they
call déchiré, torn asunder this poor country:
France and all that is
French. For, over seas too come bad news. In black Saint-Domingo, before
that variegated Glitter in the Champs Elysées was lit for an Accepted
Constitution, there had risen, and was burning contemporary with it, quite
another variegated Glitter and nocturnal Fulgor, had we known it: of
molasses and ardent-spirits; of sugar-boileries, plantations, furniture,
cattle and men: skyhigh; the Plain of Cap Français one
huge whirl of smoke
and flame!
|
September, 1791. The colonial port city of Santo Domingo on the Caribbean
island of Hispanola burns.
|
|
What a change here, in these two years; since that first 'Box of Tricolor
Cockades' got through the Custom-house, and
atrabiliar?
Creoles too rejoiced
that there was a levelling of Bastilles! Levelling is comfortable, as we
often say: levelling, yet only down to oneself. Your pale-white Creoles,
have their grievances: — and your yellow Quarteroons? And your dark-yellow
Mulattoes? And your Slaves soot-black? Quarteroon
Oge?,
Friend of our
Parisian Brissotin Friends of the Blacks, felt, for his share too, that
Insurrection was the most sacred of duties. So the tricolor Cockades had
fluttered and swashed only some three months on the Creole hat, when Oge's
signal-conflagrations went aloft; with the voice of rage and terror.
Repressed, doomed to die, he took black powder or seedgrains in the hollow
of his hand, this Oge; sprinkled a film of white ones on the top, and said
to his Judges, "Behold they are white;"—then shook his hand, and said
"Where are the Whites, Ou sont les Blancs?"
|
Before the fire was an insurrection by the oppressed mixed-race minority.
|
|
So now, in the Autumn of 1791, looking from the sky-windows of Cap
Françis, thick clouds of smoke girdle our horizon, smoke in the day, in
the night fire; preceded by fugitive shrieking white women, by Terror and
Rumour. Black demonised squadrons are massacring and harrying, with
nameless cruelty. They fight and fire 'from behind thickets and coverts,'
for the Black man loves the Bush; they rush to the attack, thousands
strong, with brandished cutlasses and fusils, with caperings, shoutings and
vociferation, — which, if the White Volunteer Company stands firm, dwindle
into staggerings, into quick gabblement, into panic flight at the first
volley, perhaps before it. (Deux Amis, x. 157.)
Poor Oge could be broken
on the wheel; this fire-whirlwind too can be abated, driven up into the
Mountains: but Saint-Domingo is shaken, as Oge's seedgrains were; shaking,
writhing in long horrid death-throes, it is Black without remedy; and
remains, as African Haiti, a monition to the world.
|
The result, ten years later, is the emergence of the Haitian state.
|
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O my Parisian Friends, is not this, as well as Regraters and Feuillant
Plotters, one cause of the astonishing dearth of Sugar! The Grocer,
palpitant, with drooping lip, sees his Sugar taxé;
weighed out by female
Patriotism, in instant retail, at the inadequate rate of twenty-five sous,
or thirteen pence a pound. "Abstain from it?" yes, ye Patriot Sections,
all ye Jacobins, abstain! Louvet and Collot-d'Herbois so advise; resolute
to make the sacrifice: though "how shall literary men do without coffee?"
Abstain, with an oath; that is the surest! (Debats des Jacobins, etc.
(Hist. Parl. xiii. 171, 92-98.)
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Price controls are put in place, which just make matters worse.
|
|
Also, for like reason, must not Brest and the Shipping Interest languish?
Poor Brest languishes, sorrowing, not without spleen; denounces an
Aristocrat
Bertrand-Moleville?
traitorous Aristocrat Marine-Minister. Do
not her Ships and King's Ships lie rotting piecemeal in harbour; Naval
Officers mostly fled, and on furlough too, with pay? Little stirring
there; if it be not the Brest Gallies, whip-driven, with their Galley-Slaves,
— alas, with some Forty of our hapless Swiss Soldiers of Château-Vieux,
among others! These Forty Swiss, too mindful of Nanci, do now, in
their red wool caps, tug sorrowfully at the oar; looking into the Atlantic
brine, which reflects only their own sorrowful shaggy faces; and seem
forgotten of Hope.
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The Atlantic fleet, with no cargos, sits in port at Brest.
|
|
But, on the whole, may we not say, in fugitive language, that the French
Constitution which shall march is very rheumatic, full of shooting internal
pains, in joint and muscle; and will not march without difficulty?
|
The new constitutional government has many problems to solve.
|
|
Extremely rheumatic Constitutions have been known to march, and keep on
their feet, though in a staggering sprawling manner, for long periods, in
virtue of one thing only: that the Head were healthy. But this Head of
the French Constitution! What King Louis is and cannot help being, Readers
already know. A King who cannot take the Constitution, nor reject the
Constitution: nor do anything at all, but miserably ask, What shall I do?
A King environed with endless confusions; in whose own mind is no germ of
order. Haughty implacable remnants of Noblesse struggling with humiliated
repentant Barnave-Lameths: struggling in that obscure element of fetchers
and carriers, of Half-pay braggarts from the Café Valois,
of Chambermaids,
whisperers, and subaltern officious persons; fierce Patriotism looking on
all the while, more and more suspicious, from without: what, in such
struggle, can they do? At best, cancel one another, and produce zero.
Poor King!
Barnave?
and your Senatorial
Jaucourts?
speak earnestly into this
ear;
Bertrand-Moleville?,
and Messengers from Coblentz, speak earnestly into
that: the poor Royal head turns to the one side and to the other side; can
turn itself fixedly to no side. Let Decency drop a veil over it: sorrier
misery was seldom enacted in the world. This one small fact, does it not
throw the saddest light on much? The Queen is lamenting to Madam Campan:
"What am I to do? When they, these Barnaves, get us advised to any step
which the Noblesse do not like, then I am pouted at; nobody comes to my
card table; the King's Couchée is solitary." (Campan, ii. 177-202.)
In such a case of dubiety, what is one to do?
Go inevitably to the ground!
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This government has, in effect, no head.
|
|
The King has accepted this Constitution, knowing beforehand that it will
not serve: he studies it, and executes it in the hope mainly that it will
be found inexecutable. King's Ships lie rotting in harbour, their officers
gone; the Armies disorganised; robbers scour the highways, which wear down
unrepaired; all Public Service lies slack and waste: the Executive makes
no effort, or an effort only to throw the blame on the Constitution.
Shamming death, 'faisant le mort!' What Constitution, use it in this
manner, can march? 'Grow to disgust the Nation' it will truly,
(Bertrand-Moleville, i. c. 4.)
— unless you first grow to disgust the Nation! It is
Bertrand de Moleville's plan, and his Majesty's; the best they can form.
|
The King's cabinet probably can do little anyway, and decides to do nothing
at all, hoping this constitution business will go away.
|
|
Or if, after all, this best-plan proved too slow; proved a failure?
Provident of that too, the Queen, shrouded in deepest mystery, 'writes all
day, in cipher, day after day, to Coblentz;' Engineer Goguelat, he of the
Night of Spurs,
whom the Lafayette Amnesty has delivered from Prison, rides
and runs. Now and then, on fit occasion, a Royal familiar visit can be
paid to that Salle de Manége, an affecting encouraging Royal Speech
(sincere, doubt it not, for the moment) can be delivered there, and the
Senators all cheer and almost weep; — at the same time Mallet
du Pan?
has
visibly ceased editing, and invisibly bears abroad a King's Autograph,
soliciting help from the Foreign Potentates. (Moleville,
i. 370.) Unhappy Louis, do this thing or else that other,
— if thou couldst!
|
Nor do the back-up plans make much sense.
|
|
The thing which the King's Government did do was to stagger distractedly
from contradiction to contradiction; and wedding Fire to Water, envelope
itself in hissing, and ashy steam! Danton and needy corruptible Patriots
are sopped with presents of cash: they accept the sop: they rise
refreshed by it, and travel their own way.
(Ibid. i. c. 17.) Nay, the
King's Government did likewise hire Hand-clappers, or claqueurs,
persons to
applaud. Subterranean Rivarol has Fifteen Hundred men in King's pay, at
the rate of some ten thousand pounds sterling, per month; what he calls 'a
staff of genius:' Paragraph-writers, Placard-Journalists; 'two hundred and
eighty Applauders, at three shillings a day:' one of the strangest Staffs
ever commanded by man. The muster-rolls and account-books of which still
exist. (Montgaillard, iii. 41.)
Bertrand-Moleville himself, in a way he
thinks very dexterous, contrives to pack the Galleries of the Legislative;
gets Sansculottes hired to go thither, and applaud at a signal given, they
fancying it was Pétion that bid them: a device which was not
detected for
almost a week. Dexterous enough; as if a man finding the Day fast decline
should determine on altering the Clockhands: that is a thing possible for
him.
|
The royalists did what little they could, trying to bribe the Commune and
agitate for the king.
|
|
Here too let us note an unexpected apparition of Philippe d'Orléans at
Court: his last at the Levée of any King.
D'Orléans, sometime in the
winter months seemingly, has been appointed to that old first-coveted rank
of Admiral, — though only over ships rotting in port. The wished-for comes
too late! However, he waits on Bertrand-Moleville to give thanks: nay to
state that he would willingly thank his Majesty in person; that, in spite
of all the horrible things men have said and sung, he is far from being his
Majesty's enemy; at bottom, how far! Bertrand delivers the message, brings
about the royal Interview, which does pass to the satisfaction of his
Majesty; d'Orléans seeming clearly repentant,
determined to turn over a new
leaf. And yet, next Sunday, what do we see? 'Next Sunday,' says Bertrand,
'he came to the King's Levée; but the Courtiers ignorant of what had
passed, the crowd of Royalists who were accustomed to resort thither on
that day specially to pay their court, gave him the most humiliating
reception. They came pressing round him; managing, as if by mistake, to
tread on his toes, to elbow him towards the door, and not let him enter
again. He went downstairs to her Majesty's Apartments, where cover was
laid; so soon as he shewed face, sounds rose on all sides, "Messieurs, take
care of the dishes," as if he had carried poison in his pockets. The
insults which his presence every where excited forced him to retire without
having seen the Royal Family: the crowd followed him to the Queen's
Staircase; in descending, he received a spitting (crachat)
on the head, and
some others, on his clothes. Rage and spite were seen visibly painted on
his face:' (Bertrand-Moleville, i. 177.)
as indeed how could they miss to
be? He imputes it all to the King and Queen, who know nothing of it, who
are even much grieved at it; and so descends, to his Chaos again. Bertrand
was there at the Château that day himself, and an eye-witness to these
things.
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Philip Egalité has a short-lived
reconciliation with his cousin the King.
|
|
For the rest, Non-jurant Priests, and the repression of them, will distract
the King's conscience; Emigrant Princes and Noblesse will force him to
double-dealing: there must be veto on veto; amid the ever-waxing
indignation of men. For Patriotism, as we said, looks on from without,
more and more suspicious. Waxing tempest, blast after blast, of Patriot
indignation, from without; dim inorganic whirl of Intrigues, Fatuities,
within! Inorganic, fatuous; from which the eye turns away.
De Staë?
intrigues for her so gallant Narbonne, to get him made War-Minister; and
ceases not, having got him made. The King shall fly to Rouen; shall there,
with the gallant Narbonne, properly 'modify the Constitution.' This is the
same brisk Narbonne, who, last year, cut out from their entanglement, by
force of dragoons, those poor fugitive Royal Aunts: men say he is at
bottom their Brother, or even more, so scandalous is scandal. He drives
now, with his de Staël, rapidly to the Armies, to the Frontier Towns;
produces rose-coloured Reports, not too credible; perorates, gesticulates;
wavers poising himself on the top, for a moment, seen of men; then tumbles,
dismissed, washed away by the Time-flood.
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Louis XVI has much to worry about and little power outside the veto. At
Madame de Staël's insistence, he makes Narbonne, her lover,
Minister of War.
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Also the fair Princess de
Lamballe?
intrigues, bosom friend of her Majesty:
to the angering of Patriotism. Beautiful Unfortunate, why did she ever
return from England? Her small silver-voice, what can it profit in that
piping of the black World-tornado? Which will whirl her, poor fragile Bird
of Paradise, against grim rocks. Lamballe and de Staël intrigue visibly,
apart or together: but who shall reckon how many others, and in what
infinite ways, invisibly! Is there not what one may call an 'Austrian
Committee,' sitting invisible in the Tuileries; centre of an invisible
Anti-National Spiderweb, which, for we sleep among mysteries, stretches its
threads to the ends of the Earth? Journalist
Carra?
has now the clearest
certainty of it: to Brissotin Patriotism, and France generally, it is
growing more and more probable.
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An 'Austrian' plot centered around the Tuileries seems more and more likely.
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O Reader, hast thou no pity for this Constitution? Rheumatic shooting
pains in its members; pressure of hydrocephale and hysteric vapours on its
Brain: a Constitution divided against itself; which will never march,
hardly even stagger? Why were not Drouet and Procureur Sausse in their
beds, that unblessed Varennes Night! Why did they not, in the name of
Heaven, let the Korff Berline go whither it listed! Nameless incoherency,
incompatibility, perhaps prodigies at which the world still shudders, had
been spared.
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Had the King and Queen been allowed to escape, at least the government would
not be divided against itself
|
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But now comes the third thing that bodes ill for the marching of this
French Constitution: besides the French People, and the French King, there
is thirdly — the assembled European world. It has become necessary now to
look at that also. Fair France is so luminous: and round and round it, is
troublous Cimmerian Night. Calonnes, Breteuils hover dim, far-flown;
overnetting Europe with intrigues. From Turin to Vienna; to Berlin, and
utmost Petersburg in the frozen North! Great Burke has raised his great
voice long ago; eloquently demonstrating that the end of an Epoch is come,
to all appearance the end of Civilised Time. Him many answer: Camille
Desmoulins, Clootz Speaker of Mankind, Paine the rebellious Needleman, and
honourable Gallic Vindicators in that country and in this: but the great
Burke remains unanswerable; 'The Age of Chivalry is gone,' and could not
but go, having now produced the still more indomitable Age of Hunger.
Altars enough, of the
Dubois?-Rohan?
sort, changing to the
Gobel?-and-Talleyrand?
sort, are faring by rapid transmutation to, shall we say, the
right Proprietor of them? French Game and French Game-Preservers did
alight on the Cliffs of Dover, with cries of distress. Who will say that
the end of much is not come? A set of mortals has risen, who believe that
Truth is not a printed Speculation, but a practical Fact; that Freedom and
Brotherhood are possible in this Earth, supposed always to be Belial's,
which 'the Supreme Quack' was to inherit! Who will say that Church, State,
Throne, Altar are not in danger; that the sacred Strong-box itself, last
Palladium of effete Humanity, may not be blasphemously blown upon, and its
padlocks undone?
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The new France has made Europe nervous and England near panic.
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The poor Constituent Assembly might act with what delicacy and diplomacy it
would; declare that it abjured meddling with its neighbours, foreign
conquest, and so forth; but from the first this thing was to be predicted:
that old Europe and new France could not subsist together. A Glorious
Revolution, oversetting State-Prisons and Feudalism; publishing, with
outburst of Federative Cannon, in face of all the Earth, that Appearance is
not Reality, how shall it subsist amid Governments which, if Appearance is
not Reality, are — one knows not what? In death feud, and internecine
wrestle and battle, it shall subsist with them; not otherwise.
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In fact the revolution can not help but affect Europe, whether or not France
wishes it.
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Rights of Man, printed on Cotton Handkerchiefs, in various dialects of
human speech, pass over to the Frankfort Fair.
(Toulongeon, i. 256.) What
say we, Frankfort Fair? They have crossed Euphrates and the fabulous
Hydaspes; wafted themselves beyond the Ural, Altai, Himmalayah: struck off
from wood stereotypes, in angular Picture-writing, they are jabbered and
jingled of in China and Japan. Where will it stop? Kien-Lung smells
mischief; not the remotest Dalai-Lama shall now knead his dough-pills in
peace. — Hateful to us; as is the Night! Bestir yourselves, ye Defenders of
Order! They do bestir themselves: all Kings and Kinglets, with their
spiritual temporal array, are astir; their brows clouded with menace.
Diplomatic emissaries fly swift; Conventions, privy Conclaves assemble; and
wise wigs wag, taking what counsel they can.
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And existing governments can not help opposing the revolution.
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Also, as we said, the Pamphleteer draws pen, on this side and that:
zealous fists beat the Pulpit-drum. Not without issue! Did not iron
Birmingham, shouting 'Church and King,' itself knew not why, burst out,
last July, into rage, drunkenness, and fire; and your Priestleys, and the
like, dining there on that Bastille day, get the maddest singeing:
scandalous to consider![141]
In which same days, as we can remark, high
Potentates, Austrian and Prussian, with Emigrants, were faring towards
Pilnitz in Saxony; there, on the 27th of August, they, keeping to
themselves what further 'secret Treaty' there might or might not be, did
publish their hopes and their threatenings, their Declaration that it was
'the common cause of Kings.'[142]
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July 14, 1791: Church and King riots in England; August 27: Declaration
of Pilnitz.
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Where a will to quarrel is, there is a way. Our readers remember that
Pentecost-Night, Fourth of August 1789, when Feudalism fell in a few hours?
The National Assembly, in abolishing Feudalism, promised that
'compensation' should be given; and did endeavour to give it. Nevertheless
the Austrian Kaiser answers that his German Princes, for their part, cannot
be unfeudalised; that they have Possessions in French Alsace, and Feudal
Rights secured to them, for which no conceivable compensation will suffice.
So this of the Possessioned Princes, 'Princes Possessionés'
is bandied from
Court to Court; covers acres of diplomatic paper at this day: a weariness
to the world.
Kaunitz?
argues from Vienna;
Delessart?
responds from Paris,
though perhaps not sharply enough. The Kaiser and his Possessioned Princes
will too evidently come and take compensation — so much as they can get.
Nay might one not partition France, as we have done Poland, and are doing;
and so pacify it with a vengeance?
|
More serious than the Pilnitz Declaration are the demands for compensation
for German and Austrian possessions in Alsace.
|
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From South to North! For actually it is 'the common cause of Kings.'
Swedish Gustav, sworn Knight of the Queen of France, will lead Coalised
Armies; — had not Ankarstrom treasonously shot
him[143];
for, indeed, there were
griefs nearer home. (30th March 1792
(Annual Register, p. 11).) Austria
and Prussia speak at Pilnitz; all men intensely listening: Imperial
Rescripts have gone out from Turin; there will be secret Convention at
Vienna. Catherine of Russia beckons approvingly; will help, were she
ready. Spanish Bourbon stirs amid his pillows; from him too, even from
him, shall there come help. Lean Pitt, 'the Minister of Preparatives,'
looks out from his watch-tower in Saint-James's, in a suspicious manner.
Councillors plotting, Calonnes dim-hovering; — alas, Serjeants rub-a-dubbing
openly through all manner of German market-towns, collecting ragged valour!
(Toulongeon, ii. 100-117.)
Look where you will, immeasurable
Obscurantism [opposition to the spread of knowledge]
is girdling this fair France; which, again, will not be girdled by it.
Europe is in travail; pang after pang; what a shriek was that of Pilnitz!
The birth will be: WAR.
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The effect of the revolution on Europe is real, even if it is not understood
by the governments. Those governments understand it cannot be left unchallenged.
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Nay the worst feature of the business is this last, still to be named; the
Emigrants at Coblentz, so many thousands ranking there, in bitter hate and
menace: King's Brothers, all Princes of the Blood except wicked
d'Orléans;
your duelling de
Castries?,
your eloquent
Cazalès?;
bull-headed
Malseignes?,
a
wargod
Broglie?;
Distaff Seigneurs, insulted Officers, all that have ridden
across the Rhine-stream; — d'Artois welcoming Abbé
Maury?
with a kiss, and
clasping him publicly to his own royal heart! Emigration, flowing over the
Frontiers, now in drops, now in streams, in various humours of fear, of
petulance, rage and hope, ever since those first Bastille days when
d'Artois went, 'to shame the citizens of Paris,' — has swollen to the size
of a Phenomenon of the world. Coblentz is become a small extra-national
Versailles; a Versailles in partibus:
briguing [private intriguing], intriguing, favouritism,
strumpetocracy itself, they say, goes on there; all the old activities, on
a small scale, quickened by hungry Revenge.
|
Carlyle thinks the assemblage of emigrées at Koblenz posed a significant
threat. It did not prove to be.
|
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Enthusiasm, of loyalty, of hatred and hope, has risen to a high pitch; as,
in any Coblentz tavern, you may hear, in speech, and in singing. Maury
assists in the interior Council; much is decided on; for one thing, they
keep lists of the dates of your emigrating; a month sooner, or a month
later determines your greater or your less right to the coming Division of
the Spoil. Cazalès himself, because he had occasionally spoken with a
Constitutional tone, was looked on coldly at first: so pure are our
principles. (Montgaillard, iii. 517; Toulongeon,
(ubi supra).) And arms
are a-hammering at Liege; 'three thousand horses' ambling hitherward from
the Fairs of Germany: Cavalry enrolling; likewise Foot-soldiers, 'in blue
coat, red waistcoat, and nankeen [raw denim] trousers!'
(See Hist. Parl. xiii. 11-38, 41-61, 358, etc.)\
They have their secret domestic correspondences, as their
open foreign: with disaffected Crypto-Aristocrats, with contumacious
Priests, with Austrian Committee in the Tuileries. Deserters are spirited
over by assiduous crimps [coyotes]; Royal-Allemand is gone almost wholly.
Their route of march, towards France and the Division of the Spoil, is marked
out, were the Kaiser once ready. "It is said, they mean to poison the
sources; but," adds Patriotism making Report of it, "they will not poison
the source of Liberty," whereat 'on applaudit [applause],'
we cannot but applaud.
Also they have manufactories of False Assignats; and men that circulate in
the interior distributing and disbursing the same; one of these we denounce
now to Legislative Patriotism: 'A man Lebrun by name; about thirty years
of age, with blonde hair and in quantity; has,' only for the time being
surely, 'a black-eye, œil poché;
goes in a wiski [light gig] with a black horse,'
(Moniteur, Séance du 2 Novembre 1791
(Hist. Parl. xii. 212).) — always keeping his Gig!
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The emigrées are supposed to be subourning the clergy, diluting
the currency and recruiting for monarchist armies.
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Unhappy Emigrants, it was their lot, and the lot of France! They are
ignorant of much that they should know: of themselves, of what is around
them. A Political Party that knows not when it is beaten, may become one
of the fatallest of things, to itself, and to all. Nothing will convince
these men that they cannot scatter the French Revolution at the first blast
of their war-trumpet; that the French Revolution is other than a blustering
Effervescence, of brawlers and spouters, which, at the flash of chivalrous
broadswords, at the rustle of gallows-ropes, will burrow itself, in dens
the deeper the welcomer. But, alas, what man does know and measure
himself, and the things that are round him; — else where were the need of
physical fighting at all? Never, till they are cleft asunder, can these
heads believe that a Sansculottic arm has any vigour in it: cleft asunder,
it will be too late to believe.
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The emigrées did not know there own strength — which was
negligible.
|
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One may say, without spleen against his poor erring brothers of any side,
that above all other mischiefs, this of the Emigrant Nobles acted fatally
on France. Could they have known, could they have understood! In the
beginning of 1789, a splendour and a terror still surrounded them: the
Conflagration of their Châteaus, kindled by months of obstinacy, went out
after the Fourth of August; and might have continued out, had they at all
known what to defend, what to relinquish as indefensible. They were still
a graduated Hierarchy of Authorities, or the accredited Similitude of such:
they sat there, uniting King with Commonalty; transmitting and translating
gradually, from degree to degree, the command of the one into the obedience
of the other; rendering command and obedience still possible. Had they
understood their place, and what to do in it, this French Revolution, which
went forth explosively in years and in months, might have spread itself
over generations; and not a torture-death but a quiet euthanasia have been
provided for many things.
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Carlyle hangs much of the blame for the excesses of the Revolution on
the fled nobles.
|
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But they were proud and high, these men; they were not wise to consider.
They spurned all from them; in disdainful hate, they drew the sword and
flung away the scabbard. France has not only no Hierarchy of Authorities,
to translate command into obedience; its Hierarchy of Authorities has fled
to the enemies of France; calls loudly on the enemies of France to
interfere armed, who want but a pretext to do that. Jealous Kings and
Kaisers might have looked on long, meditating interference, yet afraid and
ashamed to interfere: but now do not the King's Brothers, and all French
Nobles, Dignitaries and Authorities that are free to speak, which the King
himself is not, — passionately invite us, in the name of Right and of Might?
Ranked at Coblentz, from Fifteen to Twenty thousand stand now brandishing
their weapons, with the cry: On, on! Yes, Messieurs, you shall on; — and
divide the spoil according to your dates of emigrating.
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Pride kept them from duty.
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Of all which things a poor Legislative Assembly, and Patriot France, is
informed: by denunciant friend, by triumphant foe. Sulleau's Pamphlets,
of the
Rivarol?
Staff of Genius, circulate; heralding supreme hope.
Durosoy's Placards tapestry the walls; Chant du Coq crows day,
pecked at by
Tallien's?
Ami des Citoyens.
King's-Friend,
Royou?,
Ami du Roi, can name, in
exact arithmetical ciphers, the contingents of the various Invading
Potentates; in all, Four hundred and nineteen thousand Foreign fighting
men, with Fifteen thousand Emigrants. Not to reckon these your daily and
hourly desertions, which an Editor must daily record, of whole Companies,
and even Regiments, crying Vive le Roi, vive la Reine, and marching over
with banners spread: (Ami du Roi Newspaper
(in Hist. Parl. xiii. 175).) —
lies all, and wind; yet to Patriotism not wind; nor, alas, one day, to
Royou! Patriotism, therefore, may brawl and babble yet a little while:
but its hours are numbered: Europe is coming with Four hundred and
nineteen thousand and the Chivalry of France; the gallows, one may hope,
will get its own.
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Meanwhile the royalist press keeps the level of fear and agitation high.
|
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We shall have War, then; and on what terms! With an Executive
'pretending,' really with less and less deceptiveness now, 'to be dead;'
casting even a wishful eye towards the enemy: on such terms we shall have
War.
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The First Republic will, in fact, declare war.
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Public Functionary in vigorous action there is none; if it be not Rivarol
with his Staff of Genius and Two hundred and eighty Applauders. The Public
Service lies waste: the very tax-gatherer has forgotten his cunning: in
this and the other Provincial Board of Management (Directoire de
Départment) it is found advisable to retain what
Taxes you can gather, to
pay your own inevitable expenditures. Our Revenue is Assignats; emission
on emission of Paper-money. And the Army; our Three grand Armies, of
Rochambeau?,
of
Lückner?,
of
Lafayette??
Lean, disconsolate hover these Three
grand Armies, watching the Frontiers there; three Flights of long-necked
Cranes in moulting time; — wretched, disobedient, disorganised; who never
saw fire; the old Generals and Officers gone across the Rhine. War-minister
Narbonne,
he of the rose-coloured Reports, solicits recruitments,
equipments, money, always money; threatens, since he can get none, to
'take his sword,' which belongs to himself, and go serve his country with
that. (Moniteur, Séance du 23 Janvier, 1792;
Biographie des Ministres, para. Narbonne.)
|
The question is, what will they find to fight it with?
|
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The question of questions is: What shall be done? Shall we, with a
desperate defiance which Fortune sometimes favours, draw the sword at once,
in the face of this in-rushing world of Emigration and Obscurantism; or
wait, and temporise and diplomatise, till, if possible, our resources
mature themselves a little? And yet again are our resources growing
towards maturity; or growing the other way?
Dubious: the ablest Patriots
are divided;
Brissot?
and his Brissotins, or Girondins, in the Legislative,
cry aloud for the former defiant plan;
Robespierre?,
in the Jacobins, pleads
as loud for the latter dilatory one: with responses, even with mutual
reprimands; distracting the Mother of Patriotism. Consider also what
agitated Breakfasts there may be at Madame d'Udon's in the Place
Vendôme!
The alarm of all men is great. Help, ye Patriots; and O at least agree;
for the hour presses. Frost was not yet gone, when in that 'tolerably
handsome apartment of the Castle of Niort,' there arrived a Letter:
General
Dumouriez?
must to Paris. It is War-minister Narbonne that writes;
the General shall give counsel about many things.
(Dumouriez, ii. c. 6.)
In the month of February 1792, Brissotin friends welcome their Dumouriez
Polymetis,[144] —
comparable really to an antique Ulysses in modern costume;
quick, elastic, shifty, insuppressible, a 'many-counselled man.'
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There is no agreement in the Assembly about the coming war. War-Minister
Narbonne sends to Nantes for General Dumouriez.
|
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Let the Reader fancy this fair France with a whole Cimmerian
Europe[145]
girdling her, rolling in on her; black, to burst in red thunder of War;
fair France herself hand-shackled and foot-shackled in the weltering
complexities of this Social Clothing, or Constitution, which they have made
for her; a France that, in such Constitution, cannot march! And Hunger
too; and plotting Aristocrats, and excommunicating Dissident Priests: 'The
man Lebrun by name' urging his black wiski, visible to the eye: and, still
more terrible in his invisibility, Engineer Goguelat, with Queen's cipher,
riding and running!
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France would appear to be in dire straights.
|
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The excommunicatory Priests give new trouble in the Maine and Loire; La
Vendée, nor Cathelineau the wool-dealer, has not ceased grumbling and
rumbling. Nay behold Jalès itself once more:
how often does that real-imaginary Camp of the Fiend
require to be extinguished! For near two years
now, it has waned faint and again waxed bright, in the bewildered soul of
Patriotism: actually, if Patriotism knew it, one of the most surprising
products of Nature working with Art. Royalist Seigneurs, under this or the
other pretext, assemble the simple people of these Cevennes Mountains; men
not unused to revolt, and with heart for fighting, could their poor heads
be got persuaded. The Royalist Seigneur harangues; harping mainly on the
religious string: "True Priests maltreated, false Priests intruded,
Protestants (once dragooned) now triumphing, things sacred given to the
dogs;" and so produces, from the pious Mountaineer throat, rough growlings.
"Shall we not testify, then, ye brave hearts of the Cevennes; march to the
rescue? Holy Religion; duty to God and King?" "Si fait, si fait,
Just so,
just so," answer the brave hearts always: "Mais il y a de bien bonnes
choses dans la Revolution, But there are many good things in the Revolution
too!" — And so the matter, cajole as we may, will only turn on its axis, not
stir from the spot, and remains theatrical merely.
(Dampmartin, i. 201.)
|
There are new rumours of a second "camp of Jalès" in the southern
hinterlands. Unrest exists there, but is far more serious on the west coast.
|
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Nevertheless deepen your cajolery, harp quick and quicker, ye Royalist
Seigneurs; with a dead-lift effort you may bring it to that. In the month
of June next, this Camp of Jalès will step forth as a theatricality
suddenly become real; Two thousand strong, and with the boast that it is
Seventy thousand: most strange to see; with flags flying, bayonets fixed;
with Proclamation, and d'Artois Commission of civil war! Let some
Rebecqui?,
or other the like hot-clear Patriot; let some 'Lieutenant-Colonel
Aubry,' if Rebecqui is busy elsewhere, raise instantaneous National Guards,
and disperse and dissolve it; and blow the Old Castle asunder,
(Moniteur,
Seance du 15 Juillet 1792.) that so, if possible, we hear of it no more!
|
A small counter-revolutionary force does assemble at Jalès that summer,
but is suppressed.
|
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In the Months of February and March, it is recorded, the terror, especially
of rural France, had risen even to the transcendental pitch: not far from
madness. In Town and Hamlet is rumour; of war, massacre: that Austrians,
Aristocrats, above all, that The Brigands are close by. Men quit their
houses and huts; rush fugitive, shrieking, with wife and child, they know
not whither. Such a terror, the eye-witnesses say, never fell on a Nation;
nor shall again fall, even in Reigns of Terror expressly so-called. The
Countries of the Loire, all the Central and South-East regions, start up
distracted, 'simultaneously as by an electric shock;' — for indeed grain too
gets scarcer and scarcer. 'The people barricade the entrances of Towns,
pile stones in the upper stories, the women prepare boiling water; from
moment to moment, expecting the attack. In the Country, the alarm-bell
rings incessant: troops of peasants, gathered by it, scour the highways,
seeking an imaginary enemy. They are armed mostly with scythes stuck in
wood; and, arriving in wild troops at the barricaded Towns, are themselves
sometimes taken for Brigands.' (Newspapers, etc.
(in Hist. Parl. xiii. 325).)
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The country-side, as in 1789, fears attack by foreigners or hungry peasants,
they know not which.
|
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So rushes old France: old France is rushing down. What the end will be is
known to no mortal; that the end is near all mortals may know.
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To all which our poor Legislative, tied up by an unmarching Constitution,
can oppose nothing, by way of remedy, but mere bursts of parliamentary
eloquence! They go on, debating, denouncing,
objurgating [rebuking]: loud weltering
Chaos, which devours itself.
|
The Constitution did not provide the tools needed to fix problems.
|
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But their two thousand and odd Decrees? Reader, these happily concern not
thee, nor me. Mere Occasional Decrees, foolish and not foolish; sufficient
for that day was its own evil![Matthew, 6:34]
Of the whole two thousand there are not,
now half a score, and these mostly blighted in the bud by royal Veto, that
will profit or disprofit us. On the 17th of January, the Legislative, for
one thing, got its High Court, its Haute Cour, set up at
Orléans. The
theory had been given by the Constituent, in May last, but this is the
reality: a Court for the trial of Political Offences; a Court which cannot
want work. To this it was decreed that there needed no royal Acceptance,
therefore that there could be no Veto. Also Priests can now be married;
ever since last October. A patriotic adventurous Priest had made bold to
marry himself then; and not thinking this enough, came to the bar with his
new spouse; that the whole world might hold honey-moon with him, and a Law
be obtained.
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The decrees of the Legislative, spewed at 8 per day,
amount to little in retrospect.
|
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Less joyful are the Laws against Refractory Priests; and yet no less
needful! Decrees on Priests and Decrees on Emigrants: these are the two
brief Series of Decrees, worked out with endless debate, and then cancelled
by Veto, which mainly concern us here. For an august National Assembly
must needs conquer these Refractories, Clerical or Laic, and thumbscrew
them into obedience; yet, behold, always as you turn your legislative
thumbscrew, and will press and even crush till Refractories give way, —
King's Veto steps in, with magical paralysis; and your thumbscrew, hardly
squeezing, much less crushing, does not act!
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Substantive measures, especially against emigrants and nonjuring priests,
suffer the
suspensive veto vested in the king by the Constitution.
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Truly a melancholy Set of Decrees, a pair of Sets; paralysed by Veto!
First, under date the 28th of October 1791, we have Legislative
Proclamation, issued by herald and bill-sticker; inviting Monsieur, the
King's Brother to return within two months, under penalties. To which
invitation Monsieur replies nothing; or indeed replies by Newspaper Parody,
inviting the august Legislative 'to return to common sense within two
months,' under penalties. Whereupon the Legislative must take stronger
measures. So, on the 9th of November, we declare all Emigrants to be
'suspect of conspiracy;' and, in brief, to be 'outlawed,' if they have not
returned at Newyear's-day: — Will the King say Veto?
That 'triple impost'
shall be levied on these men's Properties, or even their Properties be 'put
in sequestration,' one can understand. But further, on Newyear's-day
itself, not an individual having 'returned,' we declare, and with fresh
emphasis some fortnight later again declare, That Monsieur is
déchu,
forfeited of his eventual Heirship to the Crown; nay more that Condé,
Calonne, and a considerable List of others are accused of high treason; and
shall be judged by our High Court of Orleans: Veto! — Then again as to
Nonjurant Priests: it was decreed, in November last, that they should
forfeit what Pensions they had; be 'put under inspection, under
surveillance,' and, if need were, be banished: Veto!
A still sharper turn
is coming; but to this also the answer will be, Veto.
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The decrees vetoed were those which would provide meaningful penalties for
counter-revolutionaries.
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Veto after Veto; your thumbscrew paralysed!
Gods and men may see that the
Legislative is in a false position. As, alas, who is in a true one?
Voices already murmur for a 'National Convention.' (December
1791 (Hist. Parl. xii. 257).)
This poor Legislative, spurred and stung into action by
a whole France and a whole Europe, cannot act; can only objurgate and
perorate; with stormy 'motions,' and motion in which is no way: with
effervescence, with noise and fuliginous [dusky] fury!
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The Constitution provides for a National Convention to be called when the
Constitution needs amendment. Within months some are suggesting it.
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What scenes in that National Hall! President jingling his inaudible bell;
or, as utmost signal of distress, clapping on his hat; 'the tumult
subsiding in twenty minutes,' and this or the other indiscreet Member sent
to the Abbaye Prison for three days! Suspected Persons must be summoned
and questioned; old M. de Sombreuil of the Invalides
has to give account of
himself, and why he leaves his Gates open. Unusual smoke rose from the
Sèvres Pottery, indicating conspiracy;
the Potters explained that it was
Necklace-Lamotte's Mémoires[36],
bought up by her Majesty, which they were
endeavouring to suppress by fire, (Moniteur, Séance du
28 Mai 1792; Campan, ii. 196.) —
which nevertheless he that runs may still read.
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Like its predecessor, the Legislative Assembly finds itself engulfed in
minutiae.
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Again, it would seem, Duke de Brissac and the King's Constitutional-Guard
are 'making cartridges secretly in the cellars;' a set of Royalists, pure
and impure; black cut-throats many of them, picked out of gaming houses and
sinks; in all Six thousand instead of Eighteen hundred; who evidently gloom
on us every time we enter the Château. (Dumouriez,
ii. 168.) Wherefore,
with infinite debate, let Brissac and King's Guard be disbanded.
Disbanded
accordingly they are; after only two months of existence, for they did not
get on foot till March of this same year. So ends briefly the King's new
Constitutional Maison Militaire;
he must now be guarded by mere Swiss and
blue Nationals again. It seems the lot of Constitutional things. New
Constitutional Maison Civile he would never even establish,
much as Barnave
urged it; old resident Duchesses sniffed at it, and held aloof; on the
whole her Majesty thought it not worth while, the Noblesse would so soon be
back triumphant. (Campan, ii. c. 19.)
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The King's Household Guard is suspected early and disbanded though he retains
his Swiss Guard.
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Or, looking still into this National Hall and its scenes, behold Bishop
Torné, a Constitutional Prelate, not of severe morals, demanding that
'religious costumes and such caricatures' be abolished. Bishop Torné
warms, catches fire; finishes by untying, and indignantly flinging on the
table, as if for gage or bet, his own pontifical cross. Which cross, at
any rate, is instantly covered by the cross of Te-Deum
Fauchet?,
then by
other crosses, and insignia, till all are stripped; this clerical Senator
clutching off his skull-cap, that other his frill-collar, — lest Fanaticism
return on us. (Moniteur, du 7 Avril 1792; Deux Amis,
vii. 111.)
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There are a few set pieces of revolutionary drama.
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Quick is the movement here! And then so confused, unsubstantial, you might
call it almost spectral; pallid, dim, inane, like the Kingdoms of Dis!
Unruly Linguet?,
shrunk to a kind of spectre for us, pleads here, some cause
that he has: amid rumour and interruption, which excel human patience; he
'tears his papers, and withdraws,' the irrascible adust little man. Nay
honourable members will tear their papers, being effervescent:
Merlin of
Thionville?
tears his papers, crying: "So, the People cannot be saved by
you!" Nor are Deputations wanting: Deputations of Sections; generally
with complaint and denouncement, always with Patriot fervour of sentiment:
Deputation of Women, pleading that they also may be allowed to take Pikes,
and exercise in the Champ-de-Mars. Why not, ye Amazons, if it be in you?
Then occasionally, having done our message and got answer, we 'defile
through the Hall, singing
ça-ira;'?
or rather roll and whirl through it,
'dancing our ronde patriotique the while,' — our new
Carmagnole?,
or Pyrrhic
war-dance and liberty-dance. Patriot
Huguenin?,
Ex-Advocate, Ex-Carabineer,
Ex-Clerk of the Barriers, comes deputed, with Saint-Antoine at his heels;
denouncing Anti-patriotism, Famine, Forstalment and Man-eaters; asks an
august Legislative: "Is there not a tocsin in your hearts against these
mangeurs d'hommes [cannibals]!" (See Moniteur,
Séances (in Hist. Parl. xiii. xiv.).)
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There is also plenty of less well-rehearsed theatre in the Legislative
chamber.
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But above all things, for this is a continual business, the Legislative has
to reprimand the King's Ministers. Of His Majesty's Ministers we have said
hitherto, and say, next to nothing. Still more spectral these! Sorrowful;
of no permanency any of them, none at least since
Montmorin?
vanished: the
'eldest of the King's Council' is occasionally not ten days old!
(Dumouriez, ii. 137.)
Feuillant-Constitutional, as your respectable Cahier
de Gerville?,
as your respectable unfortunate
Delessarts?;
or Royalist-Constitutional, as Montmorin last Friend of Necker;
or Aristocrat as
Bertrand-Moleville?:
they flit there phantom-like, in the huge simmering
confusion; poor shadows, dashed in the racking winds; powerless, without
meaning; — whom the human memory need not charge itself with.
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The ministries are a time-sink for the legislature. The ministers have
responsibilities but no way to carry them out.
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But how often, we say, are these poor Majesty's Ministers summoned over; to
be questioned, tutored; nay, threatened, almost bullied! They answer what,
with adroitest simulation and casuistry, they can: of which a poor
Legislative knows not what to make. One thing only is clear, That
Cimmerian Europe is girdling us in; that France (not actually dead,
surely?) cannot march. Have a care, ye Ministers! Sharp
Guadet? transfixes
you with cross-questions, with sudden Advocate-conclusions; the sleeping
tempest that is in
Vergniaud?
can be awakened. Restless
Brissot?
brings up
Reports, Accusations, endless thin Logic; it is the man's highday even now.
Condorcet?
redacts, with his firm pen, our 'Address of the Legislative
Assembly to the French Nation.' (16th February 1792
(Choix des Rapports, viii. 375-92).)
Fiery Max
Isnard?,
who, for the rest, will "carry not Fire
and Sword" on those Cimmerian Enemies "but Liberty," — is for declaring
"that we hold Ministers responsible; and that by responsibility we mean
death, nous entendons la mort."
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The legislature finds it impossible to motivate the cabinet beyond its
constitutional and factional limits, but gets in some good verbal licks.
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For verily it grows serious: the time presses, and traitors there are.
Bertrand-Moleville has a smooth tongue, the known Aristocrat; gall in his
heart. How his answers and explanations flow ready; jesuitic, plausible to
the ear! But perhaps the notablest is this, which befell once when Bertrand
had done answering and was withdrawn. Scarcely had the august Assembly
begun considering what was to be done with him, when the Hall fills with
smoke. Thick sour smoke: no oratory, only wheezing and barking; —
irremediable; so that the august Assembly has to adjourn!
(Courrier de
Paris, 14 Janvier, 1792 (Gorsas's Newspaper), in Hist. Parl. xiii. 83.)
A miracle? Typical miracle? One knows not: only this one seems to know,
that 'the Keeper of the Stoves was appointed by Bertrand' or by some
underling of his! — O fuliginous confused Kingdom of Dis, with thy
Tantalus?-Ixion?
toils, with thy angry Fire-floods,
and Streams named of Lamentation,
why hast thou not thy Lethe too, that so one might finish?
|
Carlyle feels that this period of constitutional government were better the
sooner done with.
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Nevertheless let not Patriotism despair. Have we not, in Paris at least, a
virtuous
Pétion?,
a wholly Patriotic Municipality?
Virtuous Pétion, ever
since November, is Mayor of Paris: in our Municipality, the Public, for
the Public is now admitted too, may behold an energetic
Danton?;
further, an
epigrammatic slow-sure
Manuel?;
a resolute unrepentant
Billaud-Varennes?,
of
Jesuit breeding;
Tallien?
able-editor; and nothing but Patriots, better or
worse. So ran the November Elections: to the joy of most citizens; nay
the very Court supported Pétion rather than Lafayette.
And so Bailly and
his Feuillants, long waning like the Moon, had to withdraw then, making
some sorrowful obeisance, into extinction; — or indeed into worse, into
lurid half-light, grimmed by the shadow of that Red Flag of theirs, and
bitter memory of the Champ-de-Mars. How swift is the progress of things
and men! Not now does Lafayette, as on that Federation-day, when his noon
was, 'press his sword firmly on the Fatherland's Altar,' and swear in sight
of France: ah no; he, waning and setting ever since that hour, hangs now,
disastrous, on the edge of the horizon; commanding one of those Three
moulting Crane-flights of Armies, in a most suspected, unfruitful,
uncomfortable manner!
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In November 1791 there is a change of government in Paris. The
Feuillants out, the Jacobins in.
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But, at most, cannot Patriotism, so many thousands strong in this
Metropolis of the Universe, help itself? Has it not right-hands, pikes?
Hammering of pikes, which was not to be prohibited by Mayor Bailly, has
been sanctioned by Mayor Pétion; sanctioned by Legislative Assembly.
How
not, when the King's so-called Constitutional Guard 'was making cartridges
in secret?' Changes are necessary for the National Guard itself; this
whole Feuillant-Aristocrat Staff of the Guard must be disbanded. Likewise,
citizens without uniform may surely rank in the Guard, the pike beside the
musket, in such a time: the 'active' citizen and the passive who can fight
for us, are they not both welcome? — O my Patriot friends, indubitably Yes!
Nay the truth is, Patriotism throughout, were it never so white-frilled,
logical, respectable, must either lean itself heartily on Sansculottism,
the black, bottomless; or else vanish, in the frightfullest way, to Limbo!
Thus some, with upturned nose, will altogether sniff and disdain
Sansculottism; others will lean heartily on it; nay others again will lean
what we call heartlessly on it: three sorts; each sort with a destiny
corresponding. (Discours de Bailly, Reponse de Pétion
(Moniteur du 20 Novembre 1791).)
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The new government — the middle of Carlyle's "three sorts" must necessarily
rely heavily on the support of the radical citizenry.
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In such point of view, however, have we not for the present a Volunteer
Ally, stronger than all the rest: namely, Hunger? Hunger; and what
rushing of Panic Terror this and the sum-total of our other miseries may
bring! For Sansculottism grows by what all other things die of. Stupid
Peter Baille almost made an epigram, though unconsciously, and with the
Patriot world laughing not at it but at him, when he wrote 'Tout va bien
ici, le pain manque, All goes well here, victuals not to be had.'
(Barbaroux, p. 94.)
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Lack of bread is still the main political fact.
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Neither, if you knew it, is Patriotism without her Constitution that can
march; her not impotent Parliament; or call it, Ecumenic Council, and
General-Assembly of the Jean-Jacques Churches: the MOTHER-SOCIETY, namely!
Mother-Society with her three hundred full-grown Daughters; with what we
can call little Granddaughters trying to walk, in every village of France,
numerable, as Burke thinks, by the hundred thousand. This is the true
Constitution; made not by Twelve-Hundred august Senators, but by Nature
herself; and has grown, unconsciously, out of the wants and the efforts of
these Twenty-five Millions of men. They are
'Lords of the Articles,'[146]
our Jacobins; they originate debates for the Legislative; discuss Peace and
War; settle beforehand what the Legislative is to do. Greatly to the
scandal of philosophical men, and of most Historians; — who do in that judge
naturally, and yet not wisely. A Governing power must exist: your other
powers here are simulacra [talking heads]; this power is it.
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As the created Constitution sputters, an organic constitution embodied in the
Jacobin Clubs becomes more important.
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Great is the Mother-Society: She has had the honour to be denounced by
Austrian
Kaunitz?;
(Moniteur, Séance du 29 Mars,
1792.) and is all the
dearer to Patriotism. By fortune and valour, she has extinguished
Feuillantism itself, at least the Feuillant Club. This latter, high as it
once carried its head, she, on the 18th of February, has the satisfaction
to see shut, extinct; Patriots having gone thither, with tumult, to hiss it
out of pain. The Mother Society has enlarged her locality, stretches now
over the whole nave of the Church. Let us glance in, with the worthy
Toulongeon?,
our old Ex-Constituent Friend, who happily has eyes to see:
'The nave of the Jacobins Church,' says he, 'is changed into a vast Circus,
the seats of which mount up circularly like an amphitheatre to the very
groin of the domed roof. A high Pyramid of black marble, built against one
of the walls, which was formerly a funeral monument, has alone been left
standing: it serves now as back to the Office-bearers' Bureau. Here on an
elevated Platform sit President and Secretaries, behind and above them the
white Busts of Mirabeau, of Franklin, and various others, nay finally of
Marat. Facing this is the Tribune, raised till it is midway between floor
and groin of the dome, so that the speaker's voice may be in the centre.
From that point, thunder the voices which shake all Europe: down below, in
silence, are forging the thunderbolts and the firebrands. Penetrating into
this huge circuit, where all is out of measure, gigantic, the mind cannot
repress some movement of terror and wonder; the imagination recalls those
dread temples which Poetry, of old, had consecrated to the Avenging
Deities.' (Toulongeon, ii. 124.)
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The meeting-hall of the Paris Jacobins.
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Scenes too are in this Jacobin Amphitheatre, — had History time for them.
Flags of the 'Three free Peoples of the Universe,' trinal brotherly flags
of England, America, France, have been waved here in concert; by London
Deputation, of Whigs or Wighs and their Club, on this hand, and by young
French Citizenesses on that; beautiful sweet-tongued Female Citizens, who
solemnly send over salutation and brotherhood, also Tricolor stitched by
their own needle, and finally Ears of Wheat; while the dome rebellows with
Vivent les trois peuples libres! from all throats: —
a most dramatic scene.
Demoiselle
Théroigne?
recites, from that Tribune in mid air, her
persecutions in Austria; comes leaning on the arm of Joseph
Chénier?,
Poet
Chénier, to demand Liberty for the hapless Swiss of
Château-Vieux. (Débats
des Jacobins (Hist. Parl. xiii. 259, etc.).)
Be of hope, ye Forty Swiss;
tugging there, in the Brest waters; not forgotten!
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Just as in the Ménage,
many dramatic scenes are played in the hall
of the Jacobins.
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Deputy
Brissot?
perorates from that Tribune;
Desmoulins?,
our wicked Camille,
interjecting audibly from below, "Coquin! [rascal]"
Here, though oftener in the
Cordeliers?,
reverberates the lion-voice of
Danton?;
grim Billaud-Varennes?
is
here;
Collot d'Herbois?,
pleading for the Forty Swiss; tearing a passion to
rags. Apophthegmatic [pithy]
Manuel?
winds up in this pithy way: "A Minister must
perish!" — to which the Amphitheatre responds: "Tous, Tous,
All, All!" But
the Chief Priest and Speaker of this place, as we said, is Robespierre, the
long-winded incorruptible man. What spirit of Patriotism dwelt in men in
those times, this one fact, it seems to us, will evince: that fifteen
hundred human creatures, not bound to it, sat quiet under the oratory of
Robespierre; nay, listened nightly, hour after hour, applausive; and gaped
as for the word of life. More insupportable individual, one would say,
seldom opened his mouth in any Tribune. Acrid, implacable-impotent;
dull-drawling, barren as the Harmattan-wind![147]
He pleads, in endless
earnest-shallow speech, against immediate War, against Woollen Caps or
Bonnets Rouges,
against many things; and is the
Trismegistus?
and Dalai-Lama of
Patriot men. Whom nevertheless a shrill-voiced little man, yet with fine
eyes, and a broad beautifully sloping brow, rises respectfully to
controvert: he is, say the Newspaper Reporters, 'M.
Louvet?,
Author of the
charming Romance of Faublas.' Steady, ye Patriots! Pull not yet two ways;
with a France rushing panic-stricken in the rural districts, and a
Cimmerian Europe storming in on you!
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In introducing key members of the Jacobins, Carlyle foreshadows the divisions
that will destroy it.
|
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About the vernal equinox, however, one unexpected gleam of hope does burst
forth on Patriotism: the appointment of a thoroughly Patriot Ministry.
This also his Majesty, among his innumerable experiments of wedding fire to
water, will try. Quod bonum sit.
Madame d'Udon's Breakfasts have jingled
with a new significance; not even Genevese Dumont but had a word in it.
Finally, on the 15th and onwards to the 23d day of March, 1792, when all is
negociated, — this is the blessed issue; this Patriot Ministry that we see.
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March, 1792: the king is given a new ministry made up mainly of Brissotins.
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General Dumouriez?,
with the Foreign Portfolio shall ply
Kaunitz? and the
Kaiser, in another style than did poor
Delessarts?;
whom indeed we have sent
to our High Court of Orléans for his sluggishness.
War-minister Narbonne?
is washed away by the Time-flood; poor Chevalier de Grave, chosen by the
Court, is fast washing away: then shall austere
Servan?, able
Engineer-Officer, mount suddenly to the War Department.
Genevese
Clavière?
sees an
old omen realized: passing the Finance Hôtel, long years ago, as a poor
Genevese Exile, it was borne wondrously on his mind that he was to be
Finance Minister; and now he is it; — and his poor Wife, given up by the
Doctors, rises and walks, not the victim of nerves but their vanquisher.
(Dumont, c. 20, 21.) And above all, our Minister of the Interior?
Roland de la
Platrière?,
he of Lyons! So have the Brissotins, public or private
Opinion, and Breakfasts in the Place Vendôme decided it. Strict Roland,
compared to a Quaker endimanche, or Sunday Quaker, goes to kiss hands at
the Tuileries, in round hat and sleek hair, his shoes tied with mere riband
or ferrat! The Supreme Usher twitches Dumouriez aside: "Quoi,
Monsieur!
No buckles to his shoes?" — "Ah, Monsieur," answers Dumouriez, glancing
towards the ferrat: "All is lost, Tout est perdu."
(Madame Roland, ii. 80-115.)
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Foreign minister: Dumouriez, replacing Delessart. War: Servan, replacing
Narbonnne. Finance: Clavière. Interior: Roland, who lacks
court-clothes and manners.
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And so our fair Roland removes from her upper floor in the Rue Saint-Jacques,
to the sumptuous saloons once occupied by Madame Necker. Nay
still earlier, it was Calonne that did all this gilding; it was he who
ground these lustres, Venetian mirrors; who polished this inlaying, this
veneering and or-moulu; and made it, by rubbing of the proper lamp, an
Aladdin's Palace: — and now behold, he wanders dim-flitting over Europe,
half-drowned in the Rhine-stream, scarcely saving his Papers! Vos non
vobis. — The fair Roland, equal to either fortune, has her public
Dinner on
Fridays, the Ministers all there in a body: she withdraws to her desk (the
cloth once removed), and seems busy writing; nevertheless loses no word:
if for example Deputy Brissot and Minister Clavière get too hot in
argument, she, not without timidity, yet with a cunning gracefulness, will
interpose. Deputy Brissot's head, they say, is getting giddy, in this
sudden height: as feeble heads do.
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There is at last an administration willing to work.
|
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Envious men insinuate that the Wife Roland is Minister, and not the
Husband: it is happily the worst they have to charge her with. For the
rest, let whose head soever be getting giddy, it is not this brave woman's.
Serene and queenly here, as she was of old in her own hired garret of the
Ursulines Convent! She who has quietly shelled French-beans for her
dinner; being led to that, as a young maiden, by quiet insight and
computation; and knowing what that was, and what she was: such a one will
also look quietly on or-moulu [gilded brass]
and veneering, not ignorant of these either.
Calonne?
did the veneering: he gave dinners here, old
Besenval?
diplomatically whispering to him; and was great: yet Calonne we saw at
last 'walk with long strides.' Necker next: and where now is Necker? Us
also a swift change has brought hither; a swift change will send us hence.
Not a Palace but a Caravansera!
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The homely Brissotins will not occupy the ministries long.
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| |
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So wags and wavers this unrestful World, day after day, month after month.
The Streets of Paris, and all Cities, roll daily their oscillatory flood of
men; which flood does, nightly, disappear, and lie hidden horizontal in
beds and trucklebeds; and awakes on the morrow to new perpendicularity and
movement. Men go their roads, foolish or wise; — Engineer Goguelat to and
fro, bearing Queen's cipher. A Madame de Staël is busy; cannot clutch her
Narbonne from the Time-flood: a Princess de
Lamballe?
is busy; cannot help
her Queen.
Barnave?,
seeing the Feuillants dispersed, and Coblentz so
brisk, begs by way of final recompence to kiss her Majesty's hand; augurs
not well of her new course; and retires home to Grenoble, to wed an heiress
there. The Café Valois and Mót
the Restaurateur's hear daily gasconade [boasting];
loud babble of Half-pay Royalists, with or without Poniards; remnants of
Aristocrat saloons call the new Ministry Ministére-Sansculotte.
A Louvet,
of the Romance Faublas, is busy in the Jacobins.
A Cazotte, of the Romance
Diable Amoureux, is busy elsewhere:
better wert thou quiet, old Cazotte;
it is a world, this, of magic become real! All men are busy; doing they
only half guess what: — flinging seeds, of tares [vetch]
mostly, into the Seed-field
of TIME: this, by and by, will declare wholly what.
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Much is happening, but to what purpose can not yet be said.
|
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But Social Explosions have in them something dread, and as it were mad and
magical: which indeed Life always secretly has; thus the dumb Earth (says
Fable), if you pull her mandrake-roots, will give a daemonic mad-making
moan. These Explosions and Revolts ripen, break forth like dumb dread
Forces of Nature; and yet they are Men's forces; and yet we are part of
them: the Daemonic that is in man's life has burst out on us, will sweep
us too away! — One day here is like another, and yet it is not like but
different. How much is growing, silently resistless, at all moments!
Thoughts are growing; forms of Speech are growing, and Customs and even
Costumes; still more visibly are actions and transactions growing, and that
doomed Strife, of France with herself and with the whole world.
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The difference from past and future times is merely one of speed.
|
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The word Liberty is never named now except in conjunction with another;
Liberty and Equality. In like manner, what,
in a reign of Liberty and
Equality, can these words, 'Sir,' 'obedient Servant,' 'Honour to be,' and
such like, signify? Tatters and fibres of old Feudality; which, were it
only in the Grammatical province, ought to be rooted out! The Mother
Society has long since had proposals to that effect: these she could not
entertain, not at the moment. Note too how the Jacobin Brethren are
mounting new symbolical headgear: the Woollen Cap or Nightcap, bonnet de
laine, better known as bonnet rouge, the colour being red.
A thing one
wears not only by way of Phrygian Cap-of-Liberty, but also for
convenience'-sake, and then also in compliment to the Lower-class Patriots
and Bastille-Heroes; for the Red Nightcap combines all the three properties.
Nay
cockades themselves begin to be made of wool, of tricolor yarn: the
riband-cockade, as a symptom of Feuillant Upper-class temper, is becoming
suspicious. Signs of the times.
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There are hints of a new liberalism.
Symbols are very important in a revolution.
|
|
Still more, note the travail-throes of Europe: or, rather, note the birth
she brings; for the successive throes and shrieks, of Austrian and Prussian
Alliance, of Kaunitz Anti-jacobin Despatch, of French Ambassadors cast out,
and so forth, were long to note. Dumouriez corresponds with Kaunitz,
Metternich, or Cobentzel, in another style that Delessarts did. Strict
becomes stricter; categorical answer, as to this Coblentz work and much
else, shall be given. Failing which? Failing which, on the 20th day of
April 1792, King and Ministers step over to the Salle de Manége;
promulgate
how the matter stands; and poor Louis, 'with tears in his eyes,' proposes
that the Assembly do now decree War. After due eloquence, War is decreed
that night.
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April 20, 1792, another symbol: war declared against Hungary.
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War, indeed! Paris came all crowding, full of expectancy, to the morning,
and still more to the evening session. D'Orléans with his two sons, is
there; looks on, wide-eyed, from the opposite Gallery. (Deux
Amis, vii. 146-66.) Thou canst look, O Philippe:
it is a War big with issues, for
thee and for all men. Cimmerian Obscurantism and this thrice glorious
Revolution shall wrestle for it, then: some Four-and-twenty years; in
immeasurable Briareus' wrestle; trampling and tearing; before they can come
to any, not agreement, but compromise, and approximate ascertainment each
of what is in the other.
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It is a war that will last, with respites, until 1815.
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Let our Three Generals on the Frontiers look to it, therefore; and poor
Chevalier de Grave, the War-Minister, consider what he will do. What is in
the three Generals and Armies we may guess. As for poor Chevalier de
Grave, he, in this whirl of things all coming to a press and pinch upon
him, loses head, and merely whirls with them, in a totally distracted
manner; signing himself at last, 'De Grave, Mayor of Paris:' whereupon he
demits, returns over the Channel, to walk in Kensington Gardens;
(Dumont, c. 19, 21.)
and austere Servan, the able Engineer-Officer, is elevated in
his stead. To the post of Honour? To that of Difficulty, at least.
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The constitutional government is, to say the least, not ready for war.
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And yet it is not by carmagnole-dances and singing of ça-ira,
that the work
can be done. Duke
Brunswick?
is not dancing carmagnoles, but has his drill
serjeants busy.
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But there is serious business on the eastern borders.
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On the Frontiers, our Armies, be it treason or not, behave in the worst
way. Troops badly commanded, shall we say? Or troops intrinsically bad?
Unappointed, undisciplined, mutinous; that, in a thirty-years peace, have
never seen fire? In any case, Lafayette's and Rochambeau's little clutch,
which they made at Austrian Flanders, has prospered as badly as clutch need
do: soldiers starting at their own shadow; suddenly shrieking, "On nous
trahit [we are betrayed]," and flying off in wild panic,
at or before the first shot; —
managing only to hang some two or three Prisoners they had picked up, and
massacre their own Commander, poor
Theobald Dillon?,
driven into a granary
by them in the Town of Lille.
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After the qualified victory at Jamappes, French forces were everywhere worsted,
sometimes fleeing without a shot being fired. Because many of the officers
were royalists — and many had already emigrated — there was a fear that they
might betray their regiments to the enemy.
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And poor
Gouvion?:
he who sat shiftless in that Insurrection of Women!
Gouvion quitted the Legislative Hall and Parliamentary duties, in disgust
and despair,
when those Galley-slaves of Château-Vieux were admitted there.
He said, "Between the Austrians and the Jacobins there is nothing but a
soldier's death for it;" (Toulongeon, ii. 149.)
and so, 'in the dark stormy
night,' he has flung himself into the throat of the Austrian cannon, and
perished in the skirmish at Maubeuge on the ninth of June. Whom
Legislative Patriotism shall mourn, with black mortcloths and melody in the
Champ-de-Mars: many a Patriot shiftier, truer none. Lafayette himself is
looking altogether dubious; in place of beating the Austrians, is about
writing to denounce the Jacobins. Rochambeau, all disconsolate, quits the
service: there remains only Lückner, the babbling old Prussian Grenadier.
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Military leadership is lacking: Gouvion dead, Lafayette distracted, Rochambeau
retired.
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Without Armies, without Generals! And the Cimmerian Night, has gathered
itself; Brunswick preparing his Proclamation; just about to march! Let a
Patriot Ministry and Legislative say, what in these circumstances it will
do? Suppress Internal Enemies, for one thing, answers the Patriot
Legislative; and proposes, on the 24th of May, its Decree for the
Banishment of Priests. Collect also some nucleus of determined internal
friends, adds War-minister Servan; and proposes, on the 7th of June, his
Camp of Twenty-thousand. Twenty-thousand National Volunteers; Five out of
each Canton; picked Patriots, for Roland has charge of the Interior: they
shall assemble here in Paris; and be for a defence, cunningly devised,
against foreign Austrians and domestic Austrian Committee alike.
So much can a Patriot Ministry and Legislative do.
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The government's response is to tighten internal security and create a
patriotic or "Federalist" defense force apart from the National Guard.
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Reasonable and cunningly devised as such Camp may, to Servan and
Patriotism, appear, it appears not so to Feuillantism; to that
Feuillant-Aristocrat Staff of the Paris Guard; a Staff,
one would say again, which
will need to be dissolved. These men see, in this proposed Camp of
Servan's, an offence; and even, as they pretend to say, an insult.
Petitions there come, in consequence, from blue Feuillants in epaulettes;
ill received. Nay, in the end, there comes one Petition, called 'of the
Eight Thousand National Guards:' so many names are on it; including women
and children. Which famed Petition of the Eight Thousand is indeed
received: and the Petitioners, all under arms, are admitted to the honours
of the sitting, — if honours or even if sitting there be; for the instant
their bayonets appear at the one door, the Assembly 'adjourns,' and begins
to flow out at the other. (Moniteur, Séance du
10 Juin 1792.)
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The established military objects strongly to this new patriotic force.
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Also, in these same days, it is lamentable to see how National Guards,
escorting Fête Dieu or Corpus-Christi ceremonial,
do collar and smite down
any Patriot that does not uncover as the Hostie passes. They clap their
bayonets to the breast of Cattle-butcher Legendre, a known Patriot ever
since the Bastille days; and threaten to butcher him; though he sat quite
respectfully, he says, in his Gig, at a distance of fifty paces, waiting
till the thing were by. Nay, orthodox females were shrieking to have down
the Lanterne on him. (Debats des Jacobins
(in Hist. Parl. xiv. 429).)
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There is suspicion among the Jacobins that the Paris National Guard,
now under the command of Mandat, is too
conservative.
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To such height has Feuillantism gone in this Corps. For indeed, are not
their Officers creatures of the chief Feuillant, Lafayette? The Court too
has, very naturally, been tampering with them; caressing them, ever since
that dissolution of the so-called Constitutional Guard. Some Battalions
are altogether 'pétris, kneaded full' of Feuillantism,
mere Aristocrats at
bottom: for instance, the Battalion of the Filles-Saint-Thomas,
made up of
your Bankers, Stockbrokers, and other Full-purses of the Rue Vivienne. Our
worthy old Friend
Weber?,
Queen's Foster-brother Weber, carries a musket in
that Battalion,
— one may judge with what degree of Patriotic intention.
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Large parts of the Guard are thought to be monarchcical loyalists.
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Heedless of all which, or rather heedful of all which, the Legislative,
backed by Patriot France and the feeling of Necessity, decrees this Camp of
Twenty thousand. Decisive though conditional Banishment of malign Priests,
it has already decreed.
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The call for a Federal guard has the strong support of Brissot and the
Left, and passes.
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It will now be seen, therefore, Whether the Hereditary Representative is
for us or against us? Whether or not, to all our other woes, this
intolerablest one is to be added; which renders us not a menaced Nation in
extreme jeopardy and need, but a paralytic Solecism of a Nation; sitting
wrapped as in dead cerements [shrouds],
of a Constitutional-Vesture that were no
other than a winding-sheet; our right hand glued to our left: to wait
there, writhing and wriggling, unable to stir from the spot, till in
Prussian rope we mount to the gallows? Let the Hereditary Representative
consider it well: The Decree of Priests? The Camp of Twenty Thousand? — By
Heaven, he answers, Veto! Veto! — Strict Roland hands in his Letter to the
King; or rather it was Madame's Letter, who wrote it all at a sitting; one
of the plainest-spoken Letters ever handed in to any King. This plain-spoken
Letter King Louis has the benefit of reading overnight. He reads,
inwardly digests; and next morning, the whole Patriot Ministry finds itself
turned out. It is the 13th of June 1792. (Madame Roland,
ii. 115.)
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The King vetoes the "defensive" measures, resulting in Roland's bitter
resignation, the bluntness of which causes Louis to dismiss all the
Brissotin ministers.
|
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Dumouriez the many-counselled, he, with one Duranthon, called Minister of
Justice, does indeed linger for a day or two; in rather suspicious
circumstances; speaks with the Queen, almost weeps with her: but in the
end, he too sets off for the Army; leaving what Un-Patriot or Semi-Patriot
Ministry and Ministries can now accept the helm, to accept it. Name them
not: new quick-changing Phantasms, which shift like magic-lantern figures;
more spectral than ever!
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The remaining ministers soon also resign, leaving a ministry so weak and
obscure Carlyle does not see fit to name them.
|
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Unhappy Queen, unhappy Louis! The two Vetos were so natural: are not the
Priests martyrs; also friends? This Camp of Twenty Thousand, could it be
other than of stormfullest Sansculottes? Natural; and yet, to France,
unendurable. Priests that co-operate with Coblentz must go elsewhither
with their martyrdom: stormful Sansculottes, these and no other kind of
creatures, will drive back the Austrians. If thou prefer the Austrians,
then for the love of Heaven go join them. If not, join frankly with what
will oppose them to the death. Middle course is none.
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Carlyle condemns Louis's use of the veto in this case. They put him in the
position of seeming disloyal to France.
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Or alas, what extreme course was there left now, for a man like Louis?
Underhand Royalists, Ex-Minister
Bertrand-Moleville?,
Ex-Constituent
Malouet?,
and all manner of unhelpful individuals, advise and advise. With
face of hope turned now on the Legislative Assembly, and now on Austria and
Coblentz, and round generally on the Chapter of
Chances, [148]
an ancient
Kingship is reeling and spinning, one knows not whitherward, on the flood
of things.
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The monarchy is on the lip of the maelstrom.
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But is there a thinking man in France who, in these circumstances, can
persuade himself that the Constitution will march? Brunswick is stirring;
he,
in few days now, will march. Shall France sit still, wrapped in dead
cerements and grave-clothes, its right hand glued to its left, till the
Brunswick Saint-Bartholomew arrive; till France be as
Poland149, and its
Rights of Man become a Prussian Gibbet?
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In the face of war, the Constitution has little or no credibility.
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Verily, it is a moment frightful for all men. National Death; or else some
preternatural convulsive outburst of National Life; — that same, daemonic
outburst! Patriots whose audacity has limits had, in truth, better retire
like Barnave; court private felicity at Grenoble. Patriots, whose audacity
has no limits must sink down into the obscure; and, daring and defying all
things, seek salvation in stratagem, in Plot of Insurrection. Roland and
young
Barbaroux?
have spread out the Map of France before them, Barbaroux
says 'with tears:' they consider what Rivers, what Mountain ranges are in
it: they will retire behind this Loire-stream, defend these Auvergne
stone-labyrinths; save some little sacred Territory of the Free; die at
least in their last ditch. Lafayette indites his emphatic Letter to the
Legislative against Jacobinism; (Moniteur, Séance
du 18 Juin 1792.) which
emphatic Letter will not heal the unhealable.
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Those in and out of government expect imminent invasion. Some make vague
defensive plans. Lafayette makes
a last plea against factionalism.
|
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Forward, ye Patriots whose audacity has no limits; it is you now that must
either do or die! The sections of Paris sit in deep counsel; send out
Deputation after Deputation to the Salle de Manége, to petition and
denounce. Great is their ire against tyrannous Veto,
Austrian Committee,
and the combined Cimmerian Kings. What boots it? Legislative listens to
the 'tocsin in our hearts;' grants us honours of the sitting, sees us
defile with jingle and fanfaronade; but the Camp of Twenty Thousand, the
Priest-Decree, be-vetoed by Majesty, are become impossible for Legislative.
Fiery
Isnard?
says, "We will have Equality, should we descend for it to the
tomb."
Vergniaud?
utters, hypothetically, his stern Ezekiel-visions of the
fate of Anti-national Kings. But the question is: Will hypothetic
prophecies, will jingle and fanfaronade demolish the Veto; or will the
Veto, secure in its Tuileries Château, remain undemolishable by these?
Barbaroux, dashing away his tears, writes to the Marseilles Municipality,
that they must send him 'Six hundred men who know how to die, qui savent
mourir.' (Barbaroux, p. 40.)
No wet-eyed message this, but a fire-eyed one; — which will be obeyed!
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While there are dozens of ineffective things going on, Barbaroux does one that
will be effective indeed: he summons the Marseillese.
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| |
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Meanwhile the Twentieth of June is nigh, anniversary of that world-famous
Oath of the Tennis-Court: on which day, it is said, certain citizens have
in view to plant a Mai or Tree of Liberty,
in the Tuileries Terrace of the
Feuillants; perhaps also to petition the Legislative and Hereditary
Representative about these Vetos; — with such demonstration, jingle and
evolution, as may seem profitable and practicable. Sections have gone
singly, and jingled and evolved: but if they all went, or great part of
them, and there, planting their Mai in these alarming circumstances,
sounded the tocsin in their hearts?
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The events of June 20 may have begun innocently: part celebration, part
protest.
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Among King's Friends there can be but one opinion as to such a step: among
Nation's Friends there may be two. On the one hand, might it not by
possibility scare away these unblessed Vetos? Private Patriots and even
Legislative Deputies may have each his own opinion, or own no-opinion: but
the hardest task falls evidently on Mayor Pétion and the Municipals, at
once Patriots and Guardians of the public Tranquillity. Hushing the matter
down with the one hand; tickling it up with the other! Mayor
Pétion? and
Municipality may lean this way; Department-Directory with Procureur-Syndic
Roederer?
having a Feuillant tendency, may lean that. On the whole, each
man must act according to his one opinion or to his two opinions; and all
manner of influences, official representations cross one another in the
foolishest way. Perhaps after all, the Project, desirable and yet not
desirable, will dissipate itself, being run athwart by so many
complexities; and coming to nothing?
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There was no guarantee that street protests would not sputter out without
effect.
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Not so: on the Twentieth morning of June, a large Tree of Liberty,
Lombardy Poplar by kind, lies visibly tied on its car, in the
Suburb-Antoine. Suburb Saint-Marceau too, in the uttermost South-East, and all
that remote Oriental region, Pikemen and Pikewomen, National Guards, and
the unarmed curious are gathering, — with the peaceablest intentions in the
world. A tricolor Municipal arrives; speaks. Tush, it is all peaceable,
we tell thee, in the way of Law: are not Petitions allowable, and the
Patriotism of Mais? The tricolor Municipal returns without effect:
your
Sansculottic rills continue flowing, combining into brooks: towards
noontide, led by tall Santerre in blue uniform, by tall Saint-Huruge in
white hat, it moves Westward, a respectable river, or complication of
still-swelling rivers.
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This one on June 20 seems to gain momentum, though.
|
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What Processions have we not seen: Corpus-Christi and
Legendre waiting in
Gig; Bones of Voltaire with bullock-chariots, and goadsmen in Roman
Costume; Feasts of Château-Vieux and Simonneau;
Gouvion Funerals, Rousseau
Sham-Funerals, and the Baptism of Pétion-National-Pike!
Nevertheless this
Procession has a character of its own. Tricolor ribands streaming aloft
from pike-heads; ironshod batons; and emblems not a few; among which, see
specially these two, of the tragic and the untragic sort: a Bull's Heart
transfixed with iron, bearing this epigraph, 'Coeur d'Aristocrate,
Aristocrat's Heart;' and, more striking still, properly the standard of the
host, a pair of old Black Breeches (silk, they say), extended on cross-staff
high overhead, with these memorable words: 'Tremblez tyrans, voilà
les Sansculottes, Tremble tyrants, here are the Sans-indispensables!'
Also, the Procession trails two cannons.
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As street processions go, this one is unusually well-armed.
|
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Scarfed tricolor Municipals do now again meet it, in the Quai Saint-Bernard;
and plead earnestly, having called halt. Peaceable, ye virtuous
tricolor Municipals, peaceable are we as the sucking dove. Behold our
Tennis-Court Mai. Petition is legal; and as for arms, did not an august
Legislative receive the so-called Eight Thousand in arms, Feuillants though
they were? Our Pikes, are they not of National iron? Law is our father
and mother, whom we will not dishonour; but Patriotism is our own soul.
Peaceable, ye virtuous Municipals; — and on the whole, limited as to time!
Stop we cannot; march ye with us. — The Black Breeches agitate themselves,
impatient; the cannon-wheels grumble: the many-footed Host tramps on.
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Officials of the Commune try to disperse the crowd, to no effect.
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How it reached the Salle de Manége, like an ever-waxing river; got
admittance, after debate; read its Address; and defiled, dancing and
ça-ira-ing, led by tall sonorous Santerre and tall sonorous
Saint-Huruge: how
it flowed, not now a waxing river but a shut Caspian lake, round all
Precincts of the Tuileries; the front Patriot squeezed by the rearward,
against barred iron Grates, like to have the life squeezed out of him, and
looking too into the dread throat of cannon, for National Battalions stand
ranked within: how tricolor Municipals ran assiduous, and Royalists with
Tickets of Entry; and both Majesties sat in the interior surrounded by men
in black: all this the human mind shall fancy for itself, or read in old
Newspapers, and Syndic Roederer's Chronicle of Fifty Days.
(Roederer, etc. etc. (in Hist. Parl. xv. 98-194).)
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Having presented a memorial to the Legislature, the crowd surrounds the
Palace and Garden of the Tuileries.
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Our Mai is planted; if not in the Feuillants Terrace,
whither is no ingate,
then in the Garden of the Capuchins, as near as we could get. National
Assembly has adjourned till the Evening Session: perhaps this shut lake,
finding no ingate, will retire to its sources again; and disappear in
peace? Alas, not yet: rearward still presses on; rearward knows little
what pressure is in the front. One would wish at all events, were it
possible, to have a word with his Majesty first!
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The tree-planting done, the crowd still presses.
|
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The shadows fall longer, eastward; it is four o'clock: will his Majesty
not come out? Hardly he! In that case, Commandant Santerre, Cattle-butcher Legendre, Patriot Huguenin with the tocsin in his heart; they, and
others of authority, will enter in. Petition and request to wearied
uncertain National Guard; louder and louder petition; backed by the rattle
of our two cannons! The reluctant Grate opens: endless Sansculottic
multitudes flood the stairs; knock at the wooden guardian of your privacy.
Knocks, in such case, grow strokes, grow smashings: the wooden guardian
flies in shivers. And now ensues a Scene over which the world has long
wailed; and not unjustly; for a sorrier spectacle, of Incongruity fronting
Incongruity, and as it were recognising themselves incongruous, and staring
stupidly in each other's face, the world seldom saw.
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The crowd pushes into the palace when the gates are opened to admit their
leaders.
|
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King Louis, his door being beaten on, opens it; stands with free bosom;
asking, "What do you want?" The Sansculottic flood recoils awestruck;
returns however, the rear pressing on the front, with cries of "Veto!
Patriot Ministers! Remove Veto!" — which things, Louis valiantly answers,
this is not the time to do, nor this the way to ask him to do. Honour what
virtue is in a man. Louis does not want courage; he has even the higher
kind called moral-courage, though only the passive half of that. His few
National Grenadiers shuffle back with him, into the embrasure of a window:
there he stands, with unimpeachable passivity, amid the shouldering and the
braying; a spectacle to men. They hand him a Red Cap of Liberty; he sets
it quietly on his head, forgets it there. He complains of thirst; half-
drunk Rascality offers him a bottle, he drinks of it. "Sire, do not fear,"
says one of his Grenadiers. "Fear?" answers Louis: "feel then," putting
the man's hand on his heart. So stands Majesty in Red woollen Cap; black
Sansculottism weltering round him, far and wide, aimless, with in-
articulate dissonance, with cries of "Veto! Patriot Ministers!"
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The mob enters the King's chambers and corners him with only a few guards.
He debates them calmly.
|
|
For the space of three hours or more! The National Assembly is adjourned;
tricolor Municipals avail almost nothing: Mayor Pétion tarries absent;
Authority is none. The Queen with her Children and Sister Elizabeth, in
tears and terror not for themselves only, are sitting behind barricaded
tables and Grenadiers in an inner room. The Men in Black have all wisely
disappeared. Blind lake of Sansculottism welters stagnant through the
King's Château, for the space of three hours.
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The occupation persists into the evening.
|
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Nevertheless all things do end. Vergniaud arrives with Legislative
Deputation, the Evening Session having now opened. Mayor Pétion has
arrived; is haranguing, 'lifted on the shoulders of two Grenadiers.' In
this uneasy attitude and in others, at various places without and within,
Mayor Pétion harangues; many men harangue: finally Commandant Santerre
defiles; passes out, with his Sansculottism, by the opposite side of the
Château.
Passing through the room where the Queen, with an air of dignity
and sorrowful resignation, sat among the tables and Grenadiers, a woman
offers her too a Red Cap; she holds it in her hand, even puts it on the
little Prince Royal. "Madame," said Santerre, "this People loves you more
than you think."
(Toulongeon, ii. 173; Campan, ii. c. 20.) — About eight
o'clock the Royal Family fall into each other's arms amid 'torrents of
tears.' Unhappy Family! Who would not weep for it, were there not a whole
world to be wept for?
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Finally the municipal officers restore order and the mob departs.
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|
Thus has the Age of Chivalry gone, and that of Hunger come. Thus does
all-needing Sansculottism look in the face of its Roi,
Regulator, King or
Ableman; and find that he has nothing to give it. Thus do the two Parties,
brought face to face after long centuries, stare stupidly at one another,
This am I; but, Good Heaven, is that thou? — and depart, not knowing what to
make of it. And yet, Incongruities having recognised themselves to be
incongruous, something must be made of it. The Fates know what.
|
Carlyle sees in this seen a confrontation of forces
so different they have no basis
of discussion.
|
|
This is the world-famous Twentieth of June, more worthy to be called the
Procession of the Black Breeches. With which, what we had to say of this
First French biennial Parliament, and its products and activities, may
perhaps fitly enough terminate.
|
Although there were 50 days left, this is effectively the end of the
constitutional government.
|
|
How could your paralytic National Executive be put 'in action,' in any
measure, by such a Twentieth of June as this? Quite contrariwise: a large
sympathy for Majesty so insulted arises every where; expresses itself in
Addresses, Petitions 'Petition of the Twenty Thousand inhabitants of
Paris,' and such like, among all Constitutional persons; a decided rallying
round the Throne.
|
The insults of June 20, 1792, cause a backlash of sympathy for the King.
|
|
Of which rallying it was thought King Louis might have made something.
However, he does make nothing of it, or attempt to make; for indeed his
views are lifted beyond domestic sympathy and rallying, over to Coblentz
mainly: neither in itself is the same sympathy worth much. It is sympathy
of men who believe still that the Constitution can march. Wherefore the
old discord and ferment, of Feuillant sympathy for Royalty, and Jacobin
sympathy for Fatherland, acting against each other from within; with terror
of Coblentz and Brunswick acting from without: — this discord and ferment
must hold on its course, till a catastrophe do ripen and come. One would
think, especially as Brunswick is near marching, such catastrophe cannot
now be distant. Busy, ye Twenty-five French Millions; ye foreign
Potentates, minatory Emigrants, German drill-serjeants; each do what his
hand findeth! Thou, O Reader, at such safe distance, wilt see what they
make of it among them.
|
That sympathy does not translate into support for the Royalists, though.
|
|
Consider therefore this pitiable Twentieth of June as a futility; no
catastrophe, rather a catastasis, or heightening. Do not its Black
Breeches wave there, in the Historical Imagination, like a melancholy flag
of distress; soliciting help, which no mortal can give? Soliciting pity,
which thou wert hard-hearted not to give freely, to one and all! Other
such flags, or what are called Occurrences, and black or bright symbolic
Phenomena; will flit through the Historical Imagination: these, one after
one, let us note, with extreme brevity.
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Other significant things happened about the same time:
|
|
The first phenomenon is that of Lafayette at the Bar of the Assembly; after
a week and day. Promptly, on hearing of this scandalous Twentieth of June,
Lafayette has quitted his Command on the North Frontier, in better or worse
order; and got hither, on the 28th, to repress the Jacobins: not by Letter
now; but by oral Petition, and weight of character, face to face. The
august Assembly finds the step questionable; invites him meanwhile to the
honours of the sitting. (Moniteur, Seance du 28 Juin
1792.) Other honour,
or advantage, there unhappily came almost none; the Galleries all growling;
fiery
Isnard?
glooming; sharp
Guadet?
not wanting in sarcasms.
|
Lafayette makes a scathing condemnation of the Paris mob and its influence on
the government. The speech is received not quite warmly by the Assembly.
|
|
And out of doors, when the sitting is over, Sieur Resson, keeper of the
Patriot Café in these regions,
hears in the street a hurly-burly; steps
forth to look, he and his Patriot customers: it is Lafayette's carriage,
with a tumultuous escort of blue Grenadiers, Cannoneers, even Officers of
the Line, hurrahing and capering round it. They make a pause opposite
Sieur Resson's door; wag their plumes at him; nay shake their fists,
bellowing À bas les Jacobins [down with the Jacobins];
but happily pass on without onslaught. They
pass on, to plant a Mai before the General's door,
and bully considerably.
All which the Sieur Resson cannot but report with sorrow, that night, in
the Mother Society. (Debats des Jacobins (Hist. Parl. xv.
235).) But what
no Sieur Resson nor Mother Society can do more than guess is this, That a
council of rank Feuillants, your unabolished Staff of the Guard and who
else has status and weight, is in these very moments privily deliberating
at the General's: Can we not put down the Jacobins by force? Next day, a
Review shall be held, in the Tuileries Garden, of such as will turn out,
and try. Alas, says Toulongeon, hardly a hundred turned out. Put it off
till tomorrow, then, to give better warning. On the morrow, which is
Saturday, there turn out 'some thirty;' and depart shrugging their
shoulders! (Toulongeon, ii. 180. See also Dampmartin,
ii. 161.)
Lafayette promptly takes carriage again; returns musing on my things.
|
The Jacobins take notice of Lafayette's speech and the behavior of his
supporters, but the anti-Jacobin has little public support.
|
|
The dust of Paris is hardly off his wheels, the summer Sunday is still
young, when Cordeliers in deputation pluck up that Mai of his: before
sunset, Patriots have burnt him in effigy. Louder doubt and louder rises,
in Section, in National Assembly, as to the legality of such unbidden
Anti-jacobin visit on the part of a General: doubt swelling and spreading all
over France, for six weeks or so: with endless talk about usurping
soldiers, about English Monk, nay about Cromwell: O thou Paris
Grandison-Cromwell![57]
— What boots it? King Louis himself looked coldly on the
enterprize: colossal Hero of two Worlds, having weighed himself in the
balance, finds that he is become a gossamer Colossus, only some thirty
turning out.
|
The speech marks the end of Lafayette's political influence in the
Revolution.
|
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|
In a like sense, and with a like issue, works our Department-Directory here
at Paris; who, on the 6th of July, take upon them to suspend
Mayor
Pétion?
and Procureur Manuel?
from all civic functions, for their conduct, replete,
as is alleged, with omissions and commissions, on that delicate Twentieth
of June. Virtuous Pétion sees himself a kind of martyr,
or pseudo-martyr,
threatened with several things; drawls out due heroical lamentation; to
which Patriot Paris and Patriot Legislative duly respond. King Louis and
Mayor Pétion have already had an interview on that business of the
Twentieth; an interview and dialogue, distinguished by frankness on both
sides; ending on King Louis's side with the words, "Taisez-vous,
Hold your peace."
|
Pétion is suspended by the Commune, supposedly for his behavior on
June 20.
|
|
For the rest, this of suspending our Mayor does seem a mistimed measure.
By ill chance, it came out precisely on the day of that famous Baiser de
l'amourette?,
or miraculous reconciliatory Delilah-Kiss, which we spoke of
long ago. Which Delilah-Kiss was thereby quite hindered of effect. For
now his Majesty has to write, almost that same night, asking a reconciled
Assembly for advice! The reconciled Assembly will not advise; will not
interfere. The King confirms the suspension; then perhaps, but not till
then will the Assembly interfere, the noise of Patriot Paris getting loud.
Whereby your Delilah-Kiss, such was the destiny of Parliament First,
becomes a Philistine Battle![150]
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The Assembly makes no move to assist Pétion.
|
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Nay there goes a word that as many as Thirty of our chief Patriot Senators
are to be clapped in prison, by mittimus [warrant to apprehend] and
indictment of Feuillant
Justices, Juges de Paix; who here in Paris were well capable of such a
thing. It was but in May last that Juge de Paix Larivière,
on complaint of
Bertrand-Moleville touching that Austrian Committee, made bold to launch
his mittimus against three heads of the Mountain, Deputies Bazire, Chabot,
Merlin, the Cordelier Trio; summoning them to appear before him,
and shew
where that Austrian Committee was, or else suffer the consequences. Which
mittimus the Trio, on their side, made bold to fling in the fire: and
valiantly pleaded privilege of Parliament. So that, for his zeal without
knowledge, poor Justice Larivière now sits in the prison of
Orléans,
waiting trial from the Haute Cour there.
Whose example, may it not deter
other rash Justices; and so this word of the Thirty arrestments continue a
word merely?
|
There is rumour of support for Lafayette and the King among the lower
judiciary, but it comes to nothing.
|
|
But on the whole, though Lafayette weighed so light, and has had his Mai
plucked up, Official Feuillantism falters not a whit; but carries its head
high, strong in the letter of the Law. Feuillants all of these men: a
Feuillant Directory; founding on high character, and such like; with Duke
de la
Rochefoucault?
for President, — a thing which may prove dangerous for
him! Dim now is the once bright Anglomania of these admired Noblemen.
Duke de
Liancourt?
offers, out of Normandy where he is Lord-Lieutenant, not
only to receive his Majesty, thinking of flight thither, but to lend him
money to enormous amounts. Sire, it is not a Revolt, it is a Revolution;
and truly no rose-water one! Worthier Noblemen were not in France nor in
Europe than those two: but the Time is crooked, quick-shifting, perverse;
what straightest course will lead to any goal, in it?
|
The Constitutionalists go on as before.
|
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Another phasis which we note, in these early July days, is that of certain
thin streaks of Federate National Volunteers wending from various points
towards Paris, to hold a new Federation-Festival, or Feast of Pikes, on the
Fourteenth there. So has the National Assembly wished it, so has the
Nation willed it. In this way, perhaps, may we still have our Patriot Camp
in spite of Veto. For cannot these Fédérés, having celebrated their Feast
of Pikes, march on to Soissons; and, there being drilled and regimented,
rush to the Frontiers, or whither we like? Thus were the one Veto
cunningly eluded!
|
A second Federation Festival is planned. An ulterior motive may be to
achieve what the King has vetoed: a home guard of Federalist soldiers
from throughout France.
|
|
As indeed the other Veto, about Priests, is also like to be eluded; and
without much cunning. For Provincial Assemblies, in Calvados as one
instance, are proceeding on their own strength to judge and banish
Antinational Priests. Or still worse without Provincial Assembly, a
desperate People, as at Bourdeaux, can 'hang two of them on the Lanterne,'
on the way towards judgment. (Hist. Parl. xvi. 259.) Pity for the spoken
Veto, when it cannot become an acted one!
|
Th other veto, of the law expelling nonjuring priests, is also being worked
around by the courts.
|
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It is true, some ghost of a War-minister, or Home-minister, for the time
being, ghost whom we do not name, does write to Municipalities and King's
Commanders, that they shall, by all conceivable methods, obstruct this
Federation, and even turn back the Fédérés by force of arms: a message
which scatters mere doubt, paralysis and confusion; irritates the poor
Legislature; reduces the Fédérés
as we see, to thin streaks. But being
questioned, this ghost and the other ghosts, What it is then that they
propose to do for saving the country? — they answer, That they cannot tell;
that indeed they for their part have, this morning, resigned in a body; and
do now merely respectfully take leave of the helm altogether. With which
words they rapidly walk out of the Hall,
sortent brusquement de la salle,
the 'Galleries cheering loudly,' the poor Legislature sitting 'for a good
while in silence!' (Moniteur, Séance du 10 Juillet
1792.)
Thus do Cabinet-ministers themselves, in extreme cases,
strike work; one of the strangest
omens. Other complete Cabinet-ministry there will not be; only fragments,
and these changeful, which never get completed; spectral Apparitions that
cannot so much as appear! King Louis writes that he now views this
Federation Feast with approval; and will himself have the pleasure to take
part in the same.
|
What little official government that remains tries to follow the
Feuillant line, but resigns en masse July 10, 1792.
|
|
And so these thin streaks of Fédérés wend Parisward through a paralytic
France. Thin grim streaks; not thick joyful ranks, as of old to the first
Feast of Pikes! No: these poor Federates march now towards Austria and
Austrian Committee, towards jeopardy and forlorn hope; men of hard fortune
and temper, not rich in the world's goods. Municipalities, paralyzed by
War-ministers are shy of affording cash: it may be, your poor Federates
cannot arm themselves, cannot march, till the Daughter-Society of the place
open her pocket, and subscribe. There will not have arrived, at the set
day, Three thousand of them in all. And yet, thin and feeble as these
streaks of Federates seem, they are the only thing one discerns moving with
any clearness of aim, in this strange scene. Angry buzz and simmer; uneasy
tossing and moaning of a huge France, all enchanted, spell-bound by
unmarching Constitution, into frightful conscious and unconscious
Magnetic-sleep; which frightful Magnetic-sleep must now issue
soon in one of two
things: Death or Madness! The Fédérés
carry mostly in their pocket some
earnest cry and Petition, to have the 'National Executive put in action;'
or as a step towards that, to have the King's
Déchéance [dethronement],
King's Forfeiture,
or at least his Suspension, pronounced. They shall be welcome to the
Legislative, to the Mother of Patriotism; and Paris will provide for their
lodging.
|
The few Federales that arrive in Paris come with anti-monarchical sentiments
and protests.
|
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Déchéance, indeed: and, what next?
A France spell-free, a Revolution
saved; and any thing, and all things next! so answer grimly Danton and the
unlimited Patriots, down deep in their subterranean region of Plot, whither
they have now dived. Déchéance,
answers Brissot with the limited: And if
next the little Prince Royal were crowned, and some Regency of Girondins
and recalled Patriot Ministry set over him? Alas, poor Brissot; looking,
as indeed poor man does always, on the nearest morrow as his peaceable
promised land; deciding what must reach to the world's end, yet with an
insight that reaches not beyond his own nose! Wiser are the unlimited
subterranean Patriots, who with light for the hour itself, leave the rest
to the gods.
|
Both parties of the left want to depose the King,at least in theory.
The Brissotins have some
vague notion of a regency dominated by their party.
|
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Or were it not, as we now stand, the probablest issue of all, that
Brunswick, in Coblentz, just gathering his huge limbs towards him to rise,
might arrive first; and stop both Déchéance,
and theorizing on it?
Brunswick?
is on the eve of marching; with Eighty Thousand, they say; fell
Prussians, Hessians, feller Emigrants: a General of the Great Frederick,
with such an Army. And our Armies? And our Generals? As for Lafayette,
on whose late visit a Committee is sitting and all France is jarring and
censuring, he seems readier to fight us than fight Brunswick.
Lückner?
and
Lafayette pretend to be interchanging corps, and are making movements;
which Patriotism cannot understand. This only is very clear, that their
corps go marching and shuttling, in the interior of the country; much
nearer Paris than formerly! Lückner has ordered Dumouriez down to him,
down from Maulde, and the Fortified Camp there. Which order the
many-counselled Dumouriez, with the Austrians hanging close on him, he busy
meanwhile training a few thousands to stand fire and be soldiers, declares
that, come of it what will, he cannot obey. (Dumouriez,
ii. 1, 5.) Will a
poor Legislative, therefore, sanction Dumouriez; who applies to it, 'not
knowing whether there is any War-ministry?' Or sanction Lückner and these
Lafayette movements?
|
Conflict develops between Lafayette and Lückner, commanding the central
and southern fronts, and Dumouriez in the North.
|
|
The poor Legislative knows not what to do. It decrees, however, that the
Staff of the Paris Guard, and indeed all such Staffs, for they are
Feuillants mostly, shall be broken and replaced. It decrees earnestly in
what manner one can declare that the Country is in Danger. And finally, on
the 11th of July, the morrow of that day when the Ministry struck work, it
decrees that the Country be, with all despatch, declared in Danger.
Whereupon let the King sanction; let the Municipality take measures: if
such Declaration will do service, it need not fail.
|
The Legislative Assembly declares "the Fatherland in danger", 11 July 1792.
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In Danger, truly, if ever Country was! Arise, O Country; or be trodden
down to ignominious ruin! Nay, are not the chances a hundred to one that
no rising of the Country will save it; Brunswick, the Emigrants, and Feudal
Europe drawing nigh?
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Such a declaration seems too little, too late.
|
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Of the Federation Feast itself we shall say almost nothing. There are
Tents pitched in the Champ-de-Mars; tent for National Assembly; tent for
Hereditary Representative, — who indeed is there too early, and has to wait
long in it. There are Eighty-three symbolical Departmental Trees-of-Liberty;
trees and Mais enough: beautifullest of all these is one huge
mai, hung round with effete Scutcheons,
Emblazonries and Genealogy-books;
nay better still, with Lawyers'-bags, 'sacs de procédure:'
which shall be
burnt. The Thirty seat-rows of that famed Slope are again full; we have a
bright Sun; and all is marching, streamering and blaring: but what avails
it? Virtuous Mayor Pétion, whom Feuillantism had suspended,
was reinstated
only last night, by Decree of the Assembly. Men's humour is of the
sourest. Men's hats have on them, written in chalk, 'Vive Pétion;' and
even, 'Pétion or Death, Pétion ou la Mort.'
|
The Federation of 1792 is of the same form but a different spirit than the
first one.
|
|
Poor Louis, who has waited till five o'clock before the Assembly would
arrive, swears the National Oath this time, with a quilted cuirass under
his waistcoat which will turn pistol-bullets. (Campan,
ii. c. 20; De Staël, ii. c. 7.)
Madame de Staël, from that Royal Tent, stretches out the
neck in a kind of agony, lest the waving multitudes which receive him may
not render him back alive. No cry of Vive le Roi salutes the ear; cries
only of Vive Pétion; Pétion ou la Mort.
The National Solemnity is as it
were huddled by; each cowering off almost before the evolutions are gone
through. The very Mai with its Scutcheons and
Lawyers'-bags is forgotten,
stands unburnt; till 'certain Patriot Deputies,' called by the people, set
a torch to it, by way of voluntary after-piece. Sadder Feast of Pikes no
man ever saw.
|
The joyous fraternity (and careful stage-management) of the first Féte
is not present.
|
| |
|
Mayor Pétion, named on hats, is at his zenith in this Federation;
Lafayette
again is close upon his nadir. Why does the stormbell of Saint-Roch speak
out, next Saturday; why do the citizens shut their shops?
(Moniteur, Séance du 21 Juillet 1792.)
It is Sections defiling, it is fear of
effervescence. Legislative Committee, long deliberating on Lafayette and
that Anti-jacobin Visit of his, reports, this day, that there is 'not
ground for Accusation!' Peace, ye Patriots, nevertheless; and let that
tocsin cease: the Debate is not finished, nor the Report accepted; but
Brissot, Isnard and the Mountain will sift it, and resift it, perhaps for
some three weeks longer.
|
A committee no-bills Lafayette for his July visit to Paris and his anti-Jacobin
speech, but he is still unpopular and politically isolated.
|
|
So many bells, stormbells and noises do ring; — scarcely audible; one
drowning the other. For example: in this same Lafayette tocsin, of
Saturday, was there not withal some faint bob-minor, and Deputation of
Legislative, ringing the Chevalier Paul Jones to his long rest; tocsin or
dirge now all one to him! Not ten days hence Patriot Brissot, beshouted
this day by the Patriot Galleries, shall find himself begroaned by them, on
account of his limited Patriotism; nay pelted at while perorating, and 'hit
with two prunes.' (Hist. Parl. xvi. 185.)
It is a distracted empty-sounding world;
of bob-minors and bob-majors[151],
of triumph and terror, of
rise and fall!
|
The revolution is on a cusp.
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The more touching is this other Solemnity, which happens on the morrow of
the Lafayette tocsin: Proclamation that the Country is in Danger. Not
till the present Sunday could such Solemnity be. The Legislative decreed
it almost a fortnight ago; but Royalty and the ghost of a Ministry held
back as they could. Now however, on this Sunday, 22nd day of July 1792, it
will hold back no longer; and the Solemnity in very deed is. Touching to
behold! Municipality and Mayor have on their scarfs; cannon-salvo booms
alarm from the Pont-Neuf, and single-gun at intervals all day. Guards are
mounted, scarfed Notabilities, Halberdiers, and a Cavalcade; with
streamers, emblematic flags; especially with one huge Flag, flapping
mournfully: Citoyens, la Patrie est en Danger. They roll through the
streets, with stern-sounding music, and slow rattle of hoofs: pausing at
set stations, and with doleful blast of trumpet, singing out through
Herald's throat, what the Flag says to the eye: "Citizens, the Country is
in Danger!"
|
July 22, 1792: official declaration that the country is in danger; the
equivalant of a national state of emergency.
|
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Is there a man's heart that hears it without a thrill? The many-voiced
responsive hum or bellow of these multitudes is not of triumph; and yet it
is a sound deeper than triumph. But when the long Cavalcade and
Proclamation ended; and our huge Flag was fixed on the Pont Neuf, another
like it on the Hôtel-de-Ville, to wave there till better days; and each
Municipal sat in the centre of his Section, in a Tent raised in some open
square, Tent surmounted with flags of Patrie en danger, and topmost of all
a Pike and Bonnet Rouge; and, on two drums in front of him, there lay a
plank-table, and on this an open Book, and a Clerk sat, like recording-angel,
ready to write the Lists, or as we say to enlist! O, then, it
seems, the very gods might have looked down on it. Young Patriotism,
Culottic and Sansculottic, rushes forward emulous: That is my name; name,
blood, and life, is all my Country's; why have I nothing more! Youths of
short stature weep that they are below size. Old men come forward, a son
in each hand. Mothers themselves will grant the son of their travail; send
him, though with tears. And the multitude bellows Vive la Patrie, far
reverberating. And fire flashes in the eyes of men; — and at eventide, your
Municipal returns to the Townhall, followed by his long train of volunteer
Valour; hands in his List: says proudly, looking round. This is my day's
harvest. (Tableau de la Révolution,
para Patrie en Danger.) They will
march, on the morrow, to Soissons; small bundle holding all their chattels.
|
There is an immediate patriotic outburst and rush to enlist.
|
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So, with Vive la Patrie, Vive la Liberté,
stone Paris reverberates like
Ocean in his caves; day after day, Municipals enlisting in tricolor Tent;
the Flag flapping on Pont Neuf and Townhall, Citoyens, la Patrie est en
Danger. Some Ten thousand fighters, without discipline but full of heart,
are on march in few days. The like is doing in every Town of France. —
Consider therefore whether the Country will want defenders, had we but a
National Executive? Let the Sections and Primary Assemblies, at any rate,
become Permanent, and sit continually in Paris, and over France, by
Legislative Decree dated Wednesday the 25th. (Moniteur,
Séance du 25 Juillet 1792.)
|
The levées report for training. Local electoral assemblies sit in
permanent session throughout the country.
|
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Mark contrariwise how, in these very hours, dated the 25th,
Brunswick?
shakes himself 's'ébranle [to move out],'
in Coblentz; and takes the road! Shakes
himself indeed; one spoken word becomes such a shaking. Successive,
simultaneous dirl of thirty thousand muskets shouldered; prance and jingle
of ten-thousand horsemen, fanfaronading Emigrants in the van; drum,
kettle-drum; noise of weeping, swearing;
and the immeasurable lumbering clank of
baggage-waggons and camp-kettles that groan into motion: all this is
Brunswick shaking himself; not without all this does the one man march,
'covering a space of forty miles.' Still less without his Manifesto,
dated, as we say, the 25th; a State-Paper worthy of attention!
|
July 25, 1792: Brunswick issues his Manifesto and moves towards France.
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By this Document, it would seem great things are in store for France. The
universal French People shall now have permission to rally round Brunswick
and his Emigrant Seigneurs; tyranny of a Jacobin Faction shall oppress them
no more; but they shall return, and find favour with their own good King;
who, by Royal Declaration (three years ago) of the Twenty-third of June,
said that he would himself make them happy. As for National Assembly, and
other Bodies of Men invested with some temporary shadow of authority, they
are charged to maintain the King's Cities and Strong Places intact, till
Brunswick arrive to take delivery of them. Indeed, quick submission may
extenuate many things; but to this end it must be quick. Any National
Guard or other unmilitary person found resisting in arms shall be 'treated
as a traitor;' that is to say, hanged with promptitude. For the rest, if
Paris, before Brunswick gets thither, offer any insult to the King: or,
for example, suffer a faction to carry the King away elsewhither; in that
case Paris shall be blasted asunder with cannon-shot and 'military
execution.' Likewise all other Cities, which may witness, and not resist
to the uttermost, such forced-march of his Majesty, shall be blasted
asunder; and Paris and every City of them, starting-place, course and goal
of said sacrilegious forced-march, shall, as rubbish and smoking ruin, lie
there for a sign. Such vengeance were indeed signal, 'an insigne
vengeance:' — O Brunswick, what words thou writest and blusterest!
In this
Paris, as in old Nineveh, are so many score thousands that know not the
right hand from the left, and also much cattle. Shall the very milk-cows,
hard-living cadgers'-asses, and poor little canary-birds die?
|
The Manifesto (quoted here) promises
utter destruction of Paris if the King is harmed.
|
|
Nor is Royal and Imperial Prussian-Austrian Declaration wanting: setting
forth, in the amplest manner, their Sanssouci-Schonbrunn version of this
whole French Revolution, since the first beginning of it; and with what
grief these high heads have seen such things done under the Sun: however,
'as some small consolation to mankind,' (Annual Register (1792), p. 236.)
they do now despatch Brunswick; regardless of expense, as one might say, of
sacrifices on their own part; for is it not the first duty to console men?
|
The Manifesto expresses the German (the Sanssouci is a palace in Potsdam)
and the Austrian (Schonbrunn is the great palace of Vienna) court views of the
revolution and a cynical pledge to restore their brother monarch.
|
|
Serene Highnesses, who sit there protocolling and manifestoing, and
consoling mankind! how were it if, for once in the thousand years, your
parchments, formularies, and reasons of state were blown to the four winds;
and Reality Sans-indispensables stared you, even you, in the face; and
Mankind said for itself what the thing was that would console it? —
|
Carlyle wonders how the king of Prussia or the Holy Roman Emperor would stand
up against a people like the French.
|
|
It was a bright day for
Charenton?,
that 29th of the month, when the
Marseillese Brethren actually came in sight.
Barbaroux?,
Santerre? and
Patriots have gone out to meet the grim Wayfarers. Patriot clasps dusty
Patriot to his bosom; there is footwashing and refection: 'dinner of
twelve hundred covers at the Blue Dial, Cadran Bleu;' and deep interior
consultation, that one wots not of. (Deux Amis,
viii. 90-101.)
Consultation indeed which comes to little; for Santerre, with an open
purse, with a loud voice, has almost no head. Here however we repose this
night: on the morrow is public entry into Paris.
|
The Marsaillaise are feasted outside Paris, July 29, 1792.
|
|
On which public entry the Day-Historians, Diurnalists, or Journalists as
they call themselves, have preserved record enough. How Saint-Antoine male
and female, and Paris generally, gave brotherly welcome, with bravo and
hand-clapping, in crowded streets; and all passed in the peaceablest
manner; — except it might be our Marseillese pointed out here and there a
riband-cockade, and beckoned that it should be snatched away, and exchanged
for a wool one; which was done. How the Mother Society in a body has come
as far as the Bastille-ground, to embrace you. How you then wend onwards,
triumphant, to the Townhall, to be embraced by Mayor
Pétion;?
to put down
your muskets in the Barracks of Nouvelle France, not far off;—then towards
the appointed Tavern in the Champs Elysées to enjoy a frugal Patriot
repast. (Hist. Parl. xvi. 196. See Barbaroux, p. 51-5.)
|
The day of their entry to Paris is treated as a memorable event and ends with
dinner at a tavern.
|
|
Of all which the indignant Tuileries may, by its Tickets of Entry, have
warning. Red Swiss look doubly sharp to their Château-Grates; — though
surely there is no danger? Blue Grenadiers of the Filles-Saint-Thomas
Section are on duty there this day: men of
Agio?,
as we have seen; with
stuffed purses, riband-cockades; among whom serves
Weber?.
A party of these
latter, with Captains, with sundry Feuillant Notabilities,
Moreau de
Saint-Mery?
of the three thousand orders, and others, have been dining, much more
respectably, in a Tavern hard by. They have dined, and are now drinking
Loyal-Patriotic toasts; while the Marseillese, National-Patriotic
merely,
are about sitting down to their frugal covers of delf. How it happened
remains to this day undemonstrable: but the external fact is, certain of
these Filles-Saint-Thomas Grenadiers do issue from their Tavern; perhaps
touched, surely not yet muddled with any liquor they have had; — issue in
the professed intention of testifying to the Marseillese, or to the
multitude of Paris Patriots who stroll in these spaces, That they, the
Filles-Saint-Thomas men, if well seen into, are not a whit less Patriotic
than any other class of men whatever.
|
A unit of the Paris national guard, drinking nearby, goes to meet (and
perhaps confront) the new arrivals.
|
|
It was a rash errand! For how can the strolling multitudes credit such a
thing; or do other indeed than hoot at it, provoking, and provoked; — till
Grenadier sabres stir in the scabbard, and a sharp shriek rises:
"À nous Marseillais,
Help Marseillese!" Quick as lightning, for the frugal repast
is not yet served, that Marseillese Tavern flings itself open: by door, by
window; running, bounding, vault forth the Five hundred and Seventeen
undined Patriots; and, sabre flashing from thigh, are on the scene of
controversy. Will ye parley, ye Grenadier Captains and official Persons;
'with faces grown suddenly pale,' the Deponents say?
(Moniteur, Seances du
30, du 31 Juillet 1792 (Hist. Parl. xvi. 197-210).)
Advisabler were instant
moderately swift retreat! The Filles-Saint-Thomas retreat, back foremost;
then, alas, face foremost, at treble-quick time; the Marseillese, according
to a Deponent, "clearing the fences and ditches after them like lions:
Messieurs, it was an imposing spectacle."
|
Alerted from the street, the southerners pour from the tavern and route
the Guardsmen.
|
|
Thus they retreat, the Marseillese following. Swift and swifter, towards
the Tuileries: where the Drawbridge receives the bulk of the fugitives;
and, then suddenly drawn up, saves them; or else the green mud of the Ditch
does it. The bulk of them; not all; ah, no! Moreau de Saint-Mery for
example, being too fat, could not fly fast; he got a stroke, flat-stroke
only, over the shoulder-blades, and fell prone; — and disappears there from
the History of the Revolution. Cuts also there were, pricks in the
posterior fleshy parts; much rending of skirts, and other discrepant waste.
But poor Sub-lieutenant Duhamel, innocent Change-broker, what a lot for
him! He turned on his pursuer, or pursuers, with a pistol; he fired and
missed; drew a second pistol, and again fired and missed; then ran:
unhappily in vain. In the Rue Saint-Florentin, they clutched him; thrust
him through, in red rage: that was the end of the New Era, and of all
Eras, to poor Duhamel.
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The toll was light: one officer killed, one loyalist commander disgraced,
a company of guards now the subject of ridicule.
|
|
Pacific readers can fancy what sort of grace-before-meat this was to frugal
Patriotism. Also how the Battalion of the Filles-Saint-Thomas 'drew out in
arms,' luckily without further result; how there was accusation at the Bar
of the Assembly, and counter-accusation and defence; Marseillese
challenging the sentence of free jury court, — which never got to a
decision. We ask rather, What the upshot of all these distracted wildly
accumulating things may, by probability, be? Some upshot; and the time
draws nigh! Busy are Central Committees, of Fédérés
at the Jacobins
Church, of Sections at the Townhall; Reunion of Carra, Camille and Company
at the Golden Sun. Busy: like submarine deities, or call them mud-gods,
working there in the deep murk of waters: till the thing be ready.
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The skirmish was but a foretaste of what was coming.
|
|
And how your National Assembly, like a ship waterlogged, helmless, lies
tumbling; the Galleries, of shrill Women, of Fédérés
with sabres, bellowing
down on it, not unfrightful; — and waits where the waves of chance may
please to strand it; suspicious, nay on the Left side, conscious, what
submarine Explosion is meanwhile a-charging! Petition for King's
Forfeiture rises often there: Petition from Paris Section, from Provincial
Patriot Towns; From Alençon, Briançon,
and 'the Traders at the Fair of
Beaucaire.' Or what of these?
On the 3rd of August, Mayor Pétion and the
Municipality come petitioning for Forfeiture: they openly, in their
tricolor Municipal scarfs. Forfeiture is what all Patriots now want and
expect. All Brissotins want Forfeiture; with the little Prince Royal for
King, and us for Protector over him. Emphatic Fédérés
asks the
legislature: "Can you save us, or not?" Forty-seven Sections have agreed
to Forfeiture; only that of the Filles-Saint-Thomas pretending to disagree.
Nay Section Mauconseil declares Forfeiture to be, properly speaking, come;
Mauconseil for one 'does from this day,' the last of July, 'cease
allegiance to Louis,' and take minute of the same before all men. A thing
blamed aloud; but which will be praised aloud; and the name
Mauconseil, of
Ill-counsel, be thenceforth changed to Bonconseil, of Good-counsel.
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The legislature is besieged with demands that the throne be declared
forfeited. The royalists, at least, want to see a Regency over the young
Dauphin.
|
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President
Danton?,
in the Cordeliers Section, does another thing: invites
all Passive Citizens to take place among the Active in Section-business,
one peril threatening all. Thus he, though an official person; cloudy
Atlas of the whole. Likewise he manages to have that blackbrowed Battalion
of Marseillese shifted to new Barracks, in his own region of the remote
South-East. Sleek
Chaumette?,
cruel
Billaud?,
Deputy Chabot?
the Disfrocked,
Huguenin with the tocsin in his heart, will welcome them there. Wherefore,
again and again: "O Legislators, can you save us or not?" Poor
Legislators; with their Legislature waterlogged, volcanic Explosion
charging under it! Forfeiture shall be debated on the ninth day of August;
that miserable business of Lafayette may be expected to terminate on the
eighth.
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The Sections, particularly Danton in the Cordeliers, strengthen themselves.
The legislature is near paralysis.
|
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Or will the humane Reader glance into the Levée-day
of Sunday the fifth?
The last Levée! Not for a long time, 'never,'
says
Bertrand-Moleville?,
had
a Levée been so brilliant, at least so crowded.
A sad presaging interest
sat on every face; Bertrand's own eyes were filled with tears. For,
indeed, outside of that Tricolor Riband on the Feuillants Terrace,
Legislature is debating, Sections are defiling, all Paris is astir this
very Sunday, demanding Déchéance [dethronement].
(Hist. Parl. xvi. 337-9.) Here,
however, within the riband, a grand proposal is on foot, for the hundredth
time, of carrying his Majesty to Rouen and the Castle of Gaillon. Swiss at
Courbevoye are in readiness; much is ready; Majesty himself seems almost
ready. Nevertheless, for the hundredth time, Majesty, when near the point
of action, draws back; writes, after one has waited, palpitating, an
endless summer day, that 'he has reason to believe the Insurrection is not
so ripe as you suppose.' Whereat Bertrand-Moleville breaks forth 'into
extremity at once of spleen and despair,
d'humeur et de désespoir.'
(Bertrand-Moleville, Mémoires, ii. 129.)
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There is yet another — nearly the last — attempt to get the King out of
Paris. Again, he declines to participate.
|
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For, in truth, the Insurrection is just about ripe. Thursday is the ninth
of the month August: if Forfeiture be not pronounced by the Legislature
that day, we must pronounce it ourselves.
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Carlyle suggests that Danton or the Sections had a deadline in mind.
|
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Legislature? A poor waterlogged Legislature can pronounce nothing. On
Wednesday the eighth, after endless oratory once again, they cannot even
pronounce Accusation again Lafayette; but absolve him, — hear it,
Patriotism! — by a majority of two to one. Patriotism hears it; Patriotism,
hounded on by Prussian Terror, by Preternatural Suspicion, roars tumultuous
round the Salle de Manége, all day; insults many leading Deputies,
of the
absolvent Right-side; nay chases them, collars them with loud menace:
Deputy
Vaublanc?,
and others of the like, are glad to take refuge in
Guardhouses, and escape by the back window. And so, next day, there is
infinite complaint; Letter after Letter from insulted Deputy; mere
complaint, debate and self-cancelling jargon: the sun of Thursday sets
like the others, and no Forfeiture pronounced. Wherefore in fine, To your
tents, O Israel!
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The legislature would and could not even consider
déchéance in that time frame.
|
|
The Mother-Society ceases speaking; groups cease haranguing: Patriots,
with closed lips now, 'take one another's arm;' walk off, in rows, two and
two, at a brisk business-pace; and vanish afar in the obscure places of the
East. (Deux Amis, viii. 129-88.)
Santerre is ready; or we will make him
ready. Forty-seven of the Forty-eight Sections are ready; nay
Filles-Saint-Thomas itself turns up the Jacobin side of it, turns down the
Feuillant side of it, and is ready too. Let the unlimited Patriot look to
his weapon, be it pike, be it firelock; and the Brest brethren, above all,
the blackbrowed Marseillese prepare themselves for the extreme hour!
Syndic
Roederer?
knows, and laments or not as the issue may turn, that 'five
thousand ball-cartridges, within these few days, have been distributed to
Fédérés, at the Hôtel-de-Ville.'
(Roederer à la Barre (Séance du 9 Août
(in Hist. Parl. xvi. 393.)
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August 9, 1792: There is a brief calm before the storm. The anti-monarchists
gather their strength.
|
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And ye likewise, gallant gentlemen, defenders of Royalty, crowd ye on your
side to the Tuileries. Not to a Levée: no, to a Couchée:
where much will
be put to bed. Your Tickets of Entry are needful; needfuller your
blunderbusses! — They come and crowd, like gallant men who also know how to
die: old
Maillé?
the Camp-Marshal has come, his eyes gleaming once again,
though dimmed by the rheum of almost four-score years. Courage, Brothers!
We have a thousand red Swiss; men stanch of heart, steadfast as the granite
of their Alps. National Grenadiers are at least friends of Order;
Commandant
Mandat?
breathes loyal ardour, will "answer for it on his head."
Mandat will, and his Staff; for the Staff, though there stands a doom and
Decree to that effect, is happily never yet dissolved.
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Likewise the royalists prepare for something big.
|
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Commandant Mandat has corresponded with Mayor Pétion; carries a written
Order from him these three days, to repel force by force. A squadron on
the Pont Neuf with cannon shall turn back these Marseillese coming across
the River: a squadron at the Townhall shall cut Saint-Antoine in two, 'as
it issues from the Arcade Saint-Jean;' drive one half back to the obscure
East, drive the other half forward through 'the Wickets of the Louvre.'
Squadrons not a few, and mounted squadrons; squadrons in the Palais Royal,
in the Place Vendôme: all these shall charge, at the right moment; sweep
this street, and then sweep that. Some new Twentieth of June we shall
have; only still more ineffectual? Or probably the Insurrection will not
dare to rise at all? Mandat's Squadrons, Horse-Gendarmerie and blue Guards
march, clattering, tramping; Mandat's Cannoneers rumble. Under cloud of
night; to the sound of his générale [general alarm],
which begins drumming when men should
go to bed. It is the 9th night of August, 1792.
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Mandat, in cooperation with the Commune, has planned a defense of the
Tuileries.
|
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On the other hand, the Forty-eight Sections correspond by swift messengers;
are choosing each their 'three Delegates with full powers.' Syndic
Roederer, Mayor Pétion are sent for to the Tuileries: courageous
Legislators, when the drum beats danger, should repair to their Salle.
Demoiselle
Théroigne?
has on her grenadier-bonnet, short-skirted riding-
habit; two pistols garnish her small waist, and sabre hangs
in baldric [sheathed] by
her side.
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The Sections make preparations to overthrow the Commune.
|
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Such a game is playing in this Paris Pandemonium, or City of All the
Devils! —
And yet the Night, as Mayor Pétion walks here in the Tuileries
Garden, 'is beautiful and calm;' Orion and the Pleiades glitter down quite
serene. Pétion has come forth, the 'heat' inside was so oppressive.
(Roederer, Chronique de Cinquante Jours: Récit
de Pétion. Townhall Records, etc. (in Hist. Parl. xvi. 399-466.)
Indeed, his Majesty's
reception of him was of the roughest; as it well might be. And now there
is no outgate; Mandat's blue Squadrons turn you back at every Grate; nay
the Filles-Saint-Thomas Grenadiers give themselves liberties of tongue, How
a virtuous Mayor 'shall pay for it, if there be mischief,' and the like;
though others again are full of civility. Surely if any man in France is
in straights this night, it is Mayor Pétion:
bound, under pain of death,
one may say, to smile dexterously with the one side of his face, and weep
with the other; — death if he do it not dexterously enough! Not till four
in the morning does a National Assembly, hearing of his plight, summon him
over 'to give account of Paris;' of which he knows nothing: whereby
however he shall get home to bed, and only his gilt coach be left.
Scarcely less delicate is Syndic Roederer's task; who must wait whether he
will lament or not, till he see the issue. Janus Bifrons, or Mr.
Facing-both-ways,
as vernacular Bunyan has it! They walk there, in the meanwhile,
these two Januses, with others of the like double conformation; and 'talk
of indifferent matters.'
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The representatives of the city government, mayor Pétion and
chief prosecutor Roederer are in an uncomfortable position. They lead an
increasingly radical city but hold their jobs under the current monarchical
constitution.
|
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Roederer, from time to time, steps in; to listen, to speak; to send for the
Department-Directory itself, he their Procureur Syndic not seeing how to
act. The Apartments are all crowded; some seven hundred gentlemen in black
elbowing, bustling; red Swiss standing like rocks; ghost, or partial-ghost
of a Ministry, with Roederer and advisers, hovering round their Majesties;
old Marshall Maillé kneeling at the King's feet, to say, He and these
gallant gentlemen are come to die for him. List! through the placid
midnight; clang of the distant stormbell! So, in very sooth; steeple after
steeple takes up the wondrous tale. Black Courtiers listen at the windows,
opened for air; discriminate the steeple-bells: (Roederer,
ubi supra.)
this is the tocsin of Saint-Roch; that again, is it not Saint-Jacques,
named de la Boucherie? Yes, Messieurs!
Or even Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois,
hear ye it not? The same metal that rang storm, two hundred and twenty
years ago; but by a Majesty's order then; on Saint-Bartholomew's Eve
(24th
August, 1572.)[152] —
So go the steeple-bells; which Courtiers can discriminate.
Nay, meseems, there is the Townhall itself; we know it by its sound! Yes,
Friends, that is the Townhall; discoursing so, to the Night. Miraculously;
by miraculous metal-tongue and man's arm: Marat himself, if you knew it,
is pulling at the rope there! Marat is pulling; Robespierre lies deep,
invisible for the next forty hours; and some men have heart, and some have
as good as none, and not even frenzy will give them any.
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Through the early morning of August 10, the alarm bells ring in all the
Paris sections. Other things are happening at the Hôtel de Ville,
unknown to those in the palace.
|
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What struggling confusion, as the issue slowly draws on; and the doubtful
Hour, with pain and blind struggle, brings forth its Certainty, never to be
abolished! — The Full-power Delegates, three from each Section, a Hundred
and forty-four in all, got gathered at the Townhall, about midnight.
Mandat's Squadron, stationed there, did not hinder their entering: are
they not the 'Central Committee of the Sections' who sit here usually;
though in greater number tonight? They are there: presided by Confusion,
Irresolution, and the Clack of Tongues. Swift scouts fly; Rumour buzzes,
of black Courtiers, red Swiss, of Mandat and his Squadrons that shall
charge. Better put off the Insurrection? Yes, put it off. Ha, hark!
Saint-Antoine booming out eloquent tocsin, of its own accord!—Friends, no:
ye cannot put off the Insurrection; but must put it on, and live with it,
or die with it.
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Delegates of the Sections occupy the Hôtel de Ville and effectively take
over the government of Paris.
|
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Swift now, therefore: let these actual Old Municipals, on sight of the
Full-powers, and mandate of the Sovereign elective People, lay down their
functions; and this New Hundred and forty-four take them up! Will ye nill
ye, worthy Old Municipals, ye must go. Nay is it not a happiness for many
a Municipal that he can wash his hands of such a business; and sit there
paralyzed, unaccountable, till the Hour do bring forth; or even go home to
his night's rest? (Section Documents, Townhall Documents
(Hist. Parl. ubi supra).)
Two only of the Old, or at most three, we retain: Mayor Pétion,
for the present walking in the Tuileries; Procureur Manuel; Procureur
Substitute Danton, invisible Atlas of the whole. And so, with our Hundred
and forty-four, among whom are a
Tocsin-Huguenin?, a
Billaud?, a
Chaumette?;
and
Editor-Talliens?, and
Fabre d'Eglantines?,
Sergents?,
Panises?; and in
brief, either emergent, or else emerged and full-blown, the entire Flower
of unlimited Patriotism: have we not, as by magic, made a New
Municipality; ready to act in the unlimited manner; and declare itself
roundly, 'in a State of Insurrection!' — First of all, then, be Commandant
Mandat sent for, with that Mayor's-Order of his; also let the New
Municipals visit those Squadrons that were to charge; and let the stormbell
ring its loudest; — and, on the whole, Forward, ye Hundred and forty-four;
retreat is now none for you!
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The new government declares the city in a state of insurrection and
summons the commander of the Guards, Mandat.
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Reader, fancy not, in thy languid way, that Insurrection is easy.
Insurrection is difficult: each individual uncertain even of his next
neighbour; totally uncertain of his distant neighbours, what strength is
with him, what strength is against him; certain only that, in case of
failure, his individual portion is the gallows! Eight hundred thousand
heads, and in each of them a separate estimate of these uncertainties, a
separate theorem of action conformable to that: out of so many
uncertainties, does the certainty, and inevitable net-result never to be
abolished, go on, at all moments, bodying itself forth; — leading thee also
towards civic-crowns or an ignominious noose.
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Carlyle notes the uncertainty of revolt. The leaders of and
participants in the insurrection will
be heroes or traitors depending on the events of the day.
|
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Could the Reader take an Asmodeus's Flight[153],
and waving open all roofs and
privacies, look down from the Tower of Notre Dame, what a Paris were it!
Of treble-voice whimperings or vehemence, of bass-voice growlings,
dubitations; Courage screwing itself to desperate defiance; Cowardice
trembling silent within barred doors;—and all round, Dulness calmly
snoring; for much Dulness, flung on its mattresses, always sleeps. O,
between the clangour of these high-storming tocsins and that snore of
Dulness, what a gamut: of trepidation, excitation, desperation; and above
it mere Doubt, Danger,
Atropos?
and Nox!
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It is by no means a sure thing that the sections will rise.
|
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Fighters of this section draw out; hear that the next Section does not; and
thereupon draw in. Saint-Antoine, on this side the River, is uncertain of
Saint-Marceau on that. Steady only is the snore of Dullness, are the Six
Hundred Marseillese that know how to die! Mandat, twice summoned to the
Townhall, has not come. Scouts fly incessant, in distracted haste; and the
many-whispering voices of Rumour.
Théroigne and unofficial Patriots flit,
dim-visible, exploratory, far and wide; like Night-birds on the wing. Of
Nationals some Three thousand have followed Mandat and his
générale; the
rest follow each his own theorem of the uncertainties: theorem, that one
should march rather with Saint-Antoine; innumerable theorems, that in such
a case the wholesomest were sleep. And so the drums beat, in made fits,
and the stormbells peal. Saint-Antoine itself does but draw out and draw
in; Commandant
Santerre?,
over there, cannot believe that the Marseillese
and Saint-Marceau will march. Thou laggard sonorous Beer-vat, with the
loud voice and timber head, is it time now to
palter [equivocate]? Alsatian
Westermann?
clutches him by the throat with drawn sabre: whereupon the Timber-headed
believes. In this manner wanes the slow night; amid fret, uncertainty and
tocsin; all men's humour rising to the hysterical pitch; and nothing done.
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Through the night, the sectors waver.
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However, Mandat, on the third summons does come; — come, unguarded;
astonished to find the Municipality new. They question him straitly on
that Mayor's-Order to resist force by force; on that strategic scheme of
cutting Saint-Antoine in two halves: he answers what he can: they think
it were right to send this strategic National Commandant to the Abbaye
Prison, and let a Court of Law decide on him. Alas, a Court of Law, not
Book-Law but primeval Club-Law, crowds and jostles out of doors; all
fretted to the hysterical pitch; cruel as Fear, blind as the Night: such
Court of Law, and no other, clutches poor Mandat from his constables; beats
him down, massacres him, on the steps of the Townhall. Look to it, ye new
Municipals; ye People, in a state of Insurrection! Blood is shed, blood
must be answered for; — alas, in such hysterical humour, more blood will
flow: for it is as with the Tiger in that; he has only to begin.
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Mandat, the commander of the Guards at the Tuileries, is summoned to the
City Hall and there he is murdered by the crowd.
|
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Seventeen Individuals have been seized in the Champs Elysées, by
exploratory Patriotism; they flitting dim-visible, by it flitting dim-visible.
Ye have pistols, rapiers, ye Seventeen? One of those accursed
'false Patrols;' that go marauding, with Anti-National intent; seeking what
they can spy, what they can spill! The Seventeen are carried to the
nearest Guard-house; eleven of them escape by back passages. "How is
this?" Demoiselle Théroigne appears at the front entrance, with sabre,
pistols, and a train; denounces treasonous connivance; demands, seizes, the
remaining six, that the justice of the People be not trifled with. Of
which six two more escape in the whirl and debate of the Club-Law Court;
the last unhappy Four are massacred, as Mandat was: Two Ex-Bodyguards; one
dissipated Abbé; one Royalist Pamphleteer,
Sulleau?,
known to us by name,
Able Editor, and wit of all work. Poor Sulleau: his Acts of the
Apostles,
and brisk Placard-Journals (for he was an able man) come to Finis,
in this
manner; and questionable jesting issues suddenly in horrid earnest! Such
doings usher in the dawn of the Tenth of August, 1792.
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Suspected royalists are yanked off the streets and a few summarily killed.
|
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Or think what a night the poor National Assembly has had: sitting there,
'in great paucity,' attempting to debate; — quivering and shivering;
pointing towards all the thirty-two azimuths at once, as the magnet-needle
does when thunderstorm is in the air! If the Insurrection come? If it
come, and fail? Alas, in that case, may not black Courtiers, with
blunderbusses, red Swiss with bayonets rush over, flushed with victory, and
ask us: Thou undefinable, waterlogged, self-distractive, self-destructive
Legislative, what dost thou here unsunk? — Or figure the poor National
Guards, bivouacking 'in temporary tents' there; or standing ranked,
shifting from leg to leg, all through the weary night; New tricolor
Municipals ordering one thing, old Mandat Captains ordering another!
Procureur Manuel has ordered the cannons to be withdrawn from the Pont
Neuf; none ventured to disobey him. It seemed certain, then, the old Staff
so long doomed has finally been dissolved, in these hours; and Mandat is
not our Commandant now, but Santerre? Yes, friends: Santerre henceforth,
— surely Mandat no more! The Squadrons that were to charge see nothing
certain, except that they are cold, hungry, worn down with watching; that
it were sad to slay French brothers; sadder to be slain by them. Without
the Tuileries Circuit, and within it, sour uncertain humour sways these
men: only the red Swiss stand steadfast. Them their officers refresh now
with a slight wetting of brandy; wherein the Nationals, too far gone for
brandy, refuse to participate.
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The Establishment is becoming doubtful and weary as well.
|
| |
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King Louis meanwhile had laid him down for a little sleep: his wig when he
reappeared had lost the powder on one side. (Roederer,
ubi supra.) Old
Marshal Maillé and the gentlemen in black rise always in spirits, as the
Insurrection does not rise: there goes a witty saying now, "le tocsin ne
rend pas." The tocsin, like a dry milk-cow, does not yield. For the rest,
could one not proclaim Martial Law? Not easily; for now, it seems, Mayor
Pétion is gone. On the other hand, our Interim Commandant, poor Mandat
being off, 'to the Hôtel-de-Ville,' complains that so many Courtiers in
black encumber the service, are an eyesorrow to the National Guards. To
which her Majesty answers with emphasis, That they will obey all, will
suffer all, that they are sure men these.
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As the day dawns, it looks to the Palace as if the sections may stay home.
|
| |
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And so the yellow lamplight dies out in the gray of morning, in the King's
Palace, over such a scene. Scene of jostling, elbowing, of confusion, and
indeed conclusion, for the thing is about to end. Roederer and spectral
Ministers jostle in the press; consult, in side cabinets, with one or with
both Majesties. Sister Elizabeth takes the Queen to the window: "Sister,
see what a beautiful sunrise," right over the Jacobins church and that
quarter! How happy if the tocsin did not yield! But Mandat returns not;
Pétion is gone: much hangs wavering in the invisible Balance.
About five
o'clock, there rises from the Garden a kind of sound; as of a shout to
which had become a howl, and instead of Vive le Roi
were ending in Vive la
Nation. "Mon Dieu!" ejaculates a spectral Minister,
"what is he doing down
there?" For it is his Majesty, gone down with old Marshal Maillé
to review
the troops; and the nearest companies of them answer so. Her Majesty
bursts into a stream of tears. Yet on stepping from the cabinet her eyes
are dry and calm, her look is even cheerful. 'The Austrian lip, and the
aquiline nose, fuller than usual, gave to her countenance,' says
Peltier?,
(In Toulongeon, ii. 241.)
'something of Majesty, which they that did not
see her in these moments cannot well have an idea of.' O thou Theresa's
Daughter!
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But the King, reviewing his guards, does not here the normal expression
of loyalty.
|
|
King Louis enters, much blown with the fatigue; but for the rest with his
old air of indifference. Of all hopes now surely the joyfullest were, that
the tocsin did not yield.
|
The only hope left is that the sections did not rise.
|
|
Unhappy Friends, the tocsin does yield, has yielded! Lo ye, how with the
first sun-rays its Ocean-tide, of pikes and
fusils?,
flows glittering from
the far East; — immeasurable; born of the Night! They march there, the grim
host; Saint-Antoine on this side of the River; Saint-Marceau on that, the
blackbrowed Marseillese in the van. With hum, and grim murmur, far-heard;
like the Ocean-tide, as we say: drawn up, as if by Luna and Influences,
from the great Deep of Waters, they roll gleaming on; no King,
Canute?
or
Louis, can bid them roll back. Wide-eddying side-currents, of onlookers,
roll hither and thither, unarmed, not voiceless; they, the steel host, roll
on. New-Commandant Santerre, indeed, has taken seat at the Townhall; rests
there, in his half-way-house. Alsatian
Westermann?,
with flashing sabre,
does not rest; nor the Sections, nor the Marseillese, nor Demoiselle
Théroigne;?
but roll continually on.
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Rise, of course, they did.
|
|
And now, where are
Mandat's?
Squadrons that were to charge? Not a Squadron
of them stirs: or they stir in the wrong direction, out of the way; their
officers glad that they will even do that. It is to this hour uncertain
whether the Squadron on the Pont Neuf made the shadow of resistance, or did
not make the shadow: enough, the blackbrowed Marseillese, and Saint-Marceau
following them, do cross without let; do cross, in sure hope now of
Saint-Antoine and the rest; do billow on, towards the Tuileries, where
their errand is. The Tuileries, at sound of them, rustles responsive: the
red Swiss look to their priming; Courtiers in black draw their
blunderbusses, rapiers, poniards, some have even fire-shovels; every man
his weapon of war.
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With Mandat dead, there is no organized opposition to the mobs advancing on
the Tuileries.
|
|
Judge if, in these circumstances, Syndic
Roederer?
felt easy! Will the kind
Heavens open no middle-course of refuge for a poor Syndic who halts between
two? If indeed his Majesty would consent to go over to the Assembly! His
Majesty, above all her Majesty, cannot agree to that. Did her Majesty
answer the proposal with a "Fi donc" [the heck with that];
did she say even, she would be nailed
to the walls sooner? Apparently not. It is written also that she offered
the King a pistol; saying, Now or else never was the time to show himself.
Close eye-witnesses did not see it, nor do we. That saw only that she was
queenlike, quiet; that she argued not, upbraided not, with the Inexorable;
but, like Caesar in the Capitol, wrapped her mantle, as it beseems Queens
and Sons of Adam to do. But thou, O Louis! of what stuff art thou at all?
Is there no stroke in thee, then, for Life and Crown? The silliest hunted
deer dies not so. Art thou the languidest of all mortals; or the
mildest-minded? Thou art the worst-starred.
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There is despair within the palace, but not panic, at least by the Queen.
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The tide advances; Syndic Roederer's and all men's straits grow straiter
and straiter. Fremescent [murmurous] clangor comes from the armed
Nationals in the
Court; far and wide is the infinite hubbub of tongues. What counsel? And
the tide is now nigh! Messengers, forerunners speak hastily through the
outer Grates; hold parley sitting astride the walls. Syndic Roederer goes
out and comes in. Cannoneers ask him: Are we to fire against the people?
King's Ministers ask him: Shall the King's House be forced? Syndic
Roederer has a hard game to play. He speaks to the Cannoneers with
eloquence, with fervour; such fervour as a man can, who has to blow hot and
cold in one breath. Hot and cold, O Roederer? We, for our part, cannot
live and die! The Cannoneers, by way of answer, fling down their
linstocksv [staffs used to light cannon]. — Think of this answer,
O King Louis, and King's Ministers: and
take a poor Syndic's safe middle-course,
towards the Salle de Manége. King
Louis sits, his hands leant on knees, body bent forward; gazes for a space
fixedly on Syndic Roederer; then answers, looking over his shoulder to the
Queen: Marchons! They march; King Louis, Queen,
Sister Elizabeth, the two
royal children and governess: these, with Syndic Roederer, and Officials
of the Department; amid a double rank of National Guards. The men with
blunderbusses, the steady red Swiss gaze mournfully, reproachfully; but
hear only these words from Syndic Roederer: "The King is going to the
Assembly; make way." It has struck eight, on all clocks, some minutes ago:
the King has left the Tuileries — for ever.
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At the urging of Roederer, the royal family seeks the protection of the
Legislative Assembly.
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O ye stanch Swiss, ye gallant gentlemen in black, for what a cause are ye
to spend and be spent! Look out from the western windows, ye may see King
Louis placidly hold on his way; the poor little Prince Royal 'sportfully
kicking the fallen leaves.' Fremescent multitude on the Terrace of the
Feuillants whirls parallel to him; one man in it, very noisy, with a long
pole: will they not obstruct the outer Staircase, and back-entrance of the
Salle, when it comes to that? King's Guards can go no further than the
bottom step there. Lo, Deputation of Legislators come out; he of the long
pole is stilled by oratory; Assembly's Guards join themselves to King's
Guards, and all may mount in this case of necessity; the outer Staircase is
free, or passable. See, Royalty ascends; a blue Grenadier lifts the poor
little Prince Royal from the press; Royalty has entered in. Royalty has
vanished for ever from your eyes. — And ye? Left standing there, amid the
yawning abysses, and earthquake of Insurrection; without course; without
command: if ye perish it must be as more than martyrs, as martyrs who are
now without a cause! The black Courtiers disappear mostly; through such
issues as they can. The poor Swiss know not how to act: one duty only is
clear to them, that of standing by their post; and they will perform that.
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The King's Swiss Guard, abandoned by the King and facing a mob of tens of
thousands, stand firm.
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But the glittering steel tide has arrived;
it beats now against the Château
barriers, and eastern Courts; irresistible, loud-surging far and wide; —
breaks in, fills the Court of the Carrousel, blackbrowed Marseillese in the
van. King Louis gone, say you; over to the Assembly! Well and good: but
till the Assembly pronounce Forfeiture of him, what boots it? Our post is
in that Château or stronghold of his; there till then must we continue.
Think, ye stanch Swiss, whether it were good that grim murder began, and
brothers blasted one another in pieces for a stone edifice? — Poor Swiss!
they know not how to act: from the southern windows, some fling
cartridges, in sign of brotherhood; on the eastern outer staircase, and
within through long stairs and corridors, they stand firm-ranked, peaceable
and yet refusing to stir. Westermann speaks to them in Alsatian German;
Marseillese plead, in hot Provencal speech and pantomime; stunning hubbub
pleads and threatens, infinite, around. The Swiss stand fast, peaceable
and yet immovable; red granite pier in that waste-flashing sea of steel.
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When the mob breaks through the gates, the Swiss are quickly surrounded.
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Who can help the inevitable issue; Marseillese and all France, on this
side; granite Swiss on that? The pantomime grows hotter and hotter;
Marseillese sabres flourishing by way of action; the Swiss brow also
clouding itself, the Swiss thumb bringing its firelock to the cock. And
hark! high-thundering above all the din, three Marseillese cannon from the
Carrousel, pointed by a gunner of bad aim, come rattling over the roofs!
Ye Swiss, therefore: Fire! The Swiss fire; by volley, by platoon, in
rolling-fire: Marseillese men not a few, and 'a tall man that was louder
than any,' lie silent, smashed, upon the pavement; — not a few Marseillese,
after the long dusty march, have made halt here. The Carrousel is void;
the black tide recoiling; 'fugitives rushing as far as Saint-Antoine before
they stop.' The Cannoneers without linstock have squatted invisible, and
left their cannon; which the Swiss seize.
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The stalemate is broken and the well-armed Swiss begin to fire.
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Think what a volley: reverberating doomful to the four corners of Paris,
and through all hearts; like the clang of Bellona's [goddess of War's]
thongs! The
blackbrowed Marseillese, rallying on the instant, have become black Demons
that know how to die. Nor is Brest behind-hand; nor Alsatian Westermann;
Demoiselle Théroigne is Sybil Théroigne:
Vengeance, Victoire,ou la mort [victory or death]!
From all Patriot artillery, great and small; from Feuillants Terrace, and
all terraces and places of the widespread Insurrectionary sea, there roars
responsive a red whirlwind. Blue Nationals, ranked in the Garden, cannot
help their muskets going off, against Foreign murderers. For there is a
sympathy in muskets, in heaped masses of men: nay, are not Mankind, in
whole, like tuned strings, and a cunning infinite concordance and unity;
you smite one string, and all strings will begin sounding, — in soft
sphere-melody, in deafening screech of madness! Mounted Gendarmerie gallop
distracted; are fired on merely as a thing running; galloping over the Pont
Royal, or one knows not whither. The brain of Paris, brain-fevered in the
centre of it here, has gone mad; what you call, taken fire.
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The fighting is fierce but unfocused.
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Behold, the fire slackens not; nor does the Swiss rolling-fire slacken from
within. Nay they clutched cannon, as we saw: and now, from the other side,
they clutch three pieces more; alas, cannon without linstock; nor will the
steel-and-flint answer, though they try it. (Deux Amis,
viii. 179-88.)
Had it chanced to answer! Patriot onlookers have their misgivings; one
strangest Patriot onlooker thinks that the Swiss, had they a commander,
would beat. He is a man not unqualified to judge; the name of him is
Napoleon Buonaparte. (See Hist. Parl. (xvii. 56);
Las Cases, etc.) And
onlookers, and women, stand gazing, and the witty Dr. Moore of Glasgow
among them, on the other side of the River: cannon rush rumbling past
them; pause on the Pont Royal; belch out their iron entrails there, against
the Tuileries; and at every new belch, the women and onlookers shout and
clap hands. (Moore, Journal during a Residence in France
(Dublin, 1793), i. 26.) City of all the Devils!
In remote streets, men are drinking
breakfast-coffee; following their affairs; with a start now and then, as
some dull echo reverberates a note louder. And here? Marseillese fall
wounded; but Barbaroux has surgeons; Barbaroux is close by, managing,
though underhand, and under cover. Marseillese fall death-struck; bequeath
their firelock, specify in which pocket are the cartridges; and die,
murmuring, "Revenge me, Revenge thy country!" Brest
Fédéré Officers,
galloping in red coats, are shot as Swiss. Lo you, the Carrousel has burst
into flame! — Paris Pandemonium! Nay the poor City, as we said, is in
fever-fit and convulsion; such crisis has lasted for the space of some half
hour.
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The battle rages for 30 minutes or more.
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But what is this that, with Legislative Insignia, ventures through the
hubbub and death-hail, from the back-entrance of the Manége?
Towards the
Tuileries and Swiss: written Order from his Majesty to cease firing! O ye
hapless Swiss, why was there no order not to begin it? Gladly would the
Swiss cease firing: but who will bid mad Insurrection cease firing? To
Insurrection you cannot speak; neither can it, hydra-headed, hear. The
dead and dying, by the hundred, lie all around; are borne bleeding through
the streets, towards help; the sight of them, like a torch of the Furies,
kindling Madness. Patriot Paris roars; as the bear bereaved of her whelps.
On, ye Patriots: vengeance! victory or death! There are men seen, who
rush on, armed only with walking-sticks. (Hist. Parl.
ubi supra. Rapport
du Captaine des Canonniers, Rapport du Commandant, etc. (Ibid. xvii. 300-
18).) Terror and Fury rule the hour.
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The King orders the guard to stop shooting, but the mob is not inclined to
reciprocate.
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The Swiss, pressed on from without, paralyzed from within, have ceased to
shoot; but not to be shot. What shall they do? Desperate is the moment.
Shelter or instant death: yet How? Where? One party flies out by the Rue
de l'Echelle; is destroyed utterly, 'en entier.' A second, by the other
side, throws itself into the Garden; 'hurrying across a keen fusillade:'
rushes suppliant into the National Assembly; finds pity and refuge in the
back benches there. The third, and largest, darts out in column, three
hundred strong, towards the Champs Elysées: Ah, could we but reach
Courbevoye, where other Swiss are! Wo! see, in such fusillade the column
'soon breaks itself by diversity of opinion,' into distracted segments,
this way and that; — to escape in holes, to die fighting from street to
street. The firing and murdering will not cease; not yet for long. The
red Porters of Hotels are shot at, be they Suisse by nature, or Suisse only
in name. The very Firemen, who pump and labour on that smoking Carrousel,
are shot at; why should the Carrousel not burn? Some Swiss take refuge in
private houses; find that mercy too does still dwell in the heart of man.
The brave Marseillese are merciful, late so wroth; and labour to save.
Journalist
Gorsas?
pleads hard with enfuriated groups. Clemence, the Wine-
merchant, stumbles forward to the Bar of the Assembly, a rescued Swiss in
his hand; tells passionately how he rescued him with pain and peril, how he
will henceforth support him, being childless himself; and falls a swoon
round the poor Swiss's neck: amid plaudits. But the most are butchered,
and even mangled. Fifty (some say Fourscore) were marched as prisoners, by
National Guards, to the Hôtel-de-Ville: the ferocious people bursts
through on them, in the Place de Grève;
massacres them to the last man. 'O
Peuple, envy of the universe!' Peuple, in mad Gaelic effervescence!
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A few of the Swiss escape or find refuge in the Ménage. Most are
slaughtered.
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Surely few things in the history of carnage are painfuller. What
ineffaceable red streak, flickering so sad in the memory, is that, of this
poor column of red Swiss 'breaking itself in the confusion of opinions;'
dispersing, into blackness and death! Honour to you, brave men; honourable
pity, through long times! Not martyrs were ye; and yet almost more. He
was no King of yours, this Louis; and he forsook you like a King of shreds
and patches; ye were but sold to him for some poor sixpence a-day; yet
would ye work for your wages, keep your plighted word. The work now was to
die; and ye did it. Honour to you, O Kinsmen; and may the old Deutsch
Biederheit [steadfastness] and Tapferkeit [bravery],
and Valour which is Worth and Truth be they
Swiss, be they Saxon, fail in no age! Not bastards; true-born were these
men; sons of the men of Sempach, of Murten, who knelt, but not to thee, O
Burgundy![154]
— Let the traveller, as he passes through Lucerne, turn aside to
look a little at their monumental Lion; not for
Thorwaldsen's?
sake alone.
Hewn out of living rock, the Figure rests there, by the still Lake-waters,
in lullaby of distant-tinkling rance-des-vaches [cow-bells],
the granite Mountains
dumbly keeping watch all round; and, though inanimate, speaks.
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Carlyle pays tribute to the bravery and fidelity of the Swiss Guards.
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Thus is the Tenth of August won and lost. Patriotism reckons its slain by
thousand on thousand, so deadly was the Swiss fire from these windows; but
will finally reduce them to some Twelve hundred. No child's play was it; —
nor is it! Till two in the afternoon the massacring, the breaking and the
burning has not ended; nor the loose Bedlam shut itself again.
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The slain were 1200 French and perhaps 200 Swiss.
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How deluges of frantic Sansculottism roared through all passages of this
Tuileries, ruthless in vengeance, how the Valets were butchered, hewn down;
and Dame
Campan?
saw the Marseilles sabre flash over her head, but the
Blackbrowed said, "Va-t-en, Get thee gone," and flung her from him
unstruck: (Campan, ii. c. 21.)
how in the cellars wine-bottles were
broken, wine-butts were staved in and drunk; and, upwards to the very
garrets, all windows tumbled out their precious royal furnitures; and, with
gold mirrors, velvet curtains, down of ript feather-beds, and dead bodies
of men, the Tuileries was like no Garden of the Earth: — all this let him
who has a taste for it see amply in Mercier, in acrid Montgaillard, or
Beaulieu of the Deux Amis.
A hundred and eighty bodies of Swiss lie piled
there; naked, unremoved till the second day. Patriotism has torn their red
coats into snips; and marches with them at the Pike's point: the ghastly
bare corpses lie there, under the sun and under the stars; the curious of
both sexes crowding to look. Which let not us do. Above a hundred carts
heaped with Dead fare towards the Cemetery of Sainte-Madeleine; bewailed,
bewept; for all had kindred, all had mothers, if not here, then there. It
is one of those Carnage-fields, such as you read of by the name 'Glorious
Victory,'[155]
brought home in this case to one's own door.
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The revengeful violence was great, but more the subject of the voyeur than
the historian.
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But the blackbrowed Marseillese have struck down the Tyrant of the Château.
He is struck down; low, and hardly to rise. What a moment for an august
Legislative was that when the Hereditary Representative entered, under such
circumstances; and the Grenadier, carrying the little Prince Royal out of
the Press, set him down on the Assembly-table! A moment, — which one had to
smooth off with oratory; waiting what the next would bring! Louis said few
words: "He was come hither to prevent a great crime; he believed himself
safer nowhere than here." President Vergniaud answered briefly, in vague
oratory as we say, about "defence of Constituted Authorities," about dying
at our post. (Moniteur, Sánce du 10 Août
1792.) And so King Louis sat
him down; first here, then there; for a difficulty arose, the Constitution
not permitting us to debate while the King is present: finally he settles
himself with his Family in the 'Loge of the Logographe'
in the Reporter's-Box of a Journalist:
which is beyond the enchanted Constitutional Circuit,
separated from it by a rail. To such Lodge of the Logographe, measuring
some ten feet square, with a small closet at the entrance of it behind, is
the King of broad France now limited: here can he and his sit pent, under
the eyes of the world, or retire into their closet at intervals; for the
space of sixteen hours. Such quiet peculiar moment has the Legislative
lived to see.
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The King, who can not be present while the Legislative Assembly debates,
is secured in the reporters'-box.
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But also what a moment was that other, few minutes later, when the three
Marseillese cannon went off, and the Swiss rolling-fire and universal
thunder, like the Crack of Doom, began to rattle! Honourable Members start
to their feet; stray bullets singing epicedium [funeral song] even here,
shivering in with
window-glass and jingle. "No, this is our post; let us die here!" They
sit therefore, like stone Legislators. But may not the Lodge of the
Logographe be forced from behind? Tear down the railing that divides it
from the enchanted Constitutional Circuit! Ushers tear and tug; his
Majesty himself aiding from within: the railing gives way; Majesty and
Legislative are united in place, unknown Destiny hovering over both.
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The national legislators fear they will die in their chamber.
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Rattle, and again rattle, went the thunder; one breathless wide-eyed
messenger rushing in after another: King's orders to the Swiss went out.
It was a fearful thunder; but, as we know, it ended. Breathless
messengers, fugitive Swiss, denunciatory Patriots, trepidation [fear]; finally
tripudiation [dancing]! — Before four o'clock much has come and gone.
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The riot ends with the legislature unmolested.
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The New Municipals have come and gone; with Three Flags, Liberté,
Egalité,
Patrie, and the clang of vivats. Vergniaud, he who as President few hours
ago talked of Dying for Constituted Authorities, has moved, as
Committee-Reporter, that the Hereditary Representative be suspended;
that a NATIONAL CONVENTION do forthwith assemble to say what further!
An able Report:
which the President must have had ready in his pocket? A President, in
such cases, must have much ready, and yet not ready; and Janus-like look
before and after.
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Almost immediately after the crisis. the Legislative Assembly moves to disbar
the King and to dissolve itself in favor of the National Assembly called for
in the Constitution.
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King Louis listens to all; retires about midnight 'to three little rooms on
the upper floor;' till the Luxembourg be prepared for him, and 'the
safeguard of the Nation.' Safer if Brunswick were once here! Or, alas,
not so safe? Ye hapless discrowned heads! Crowds came, next morning, to
catch a glimpse of them, in their three upper rooms.
Montgaillard?
says the
august Captives wore an air of cheerfulness, even of gaiety; that the Queen
and Princess Lamballe, who had joined her over night, looked out of the
open window, 'shook powder from their hair on the people below, and
laughed.' (Montgaillard. ii. 135-167.)
He is an acrid distorted man.
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The royal family, perhaps relieved to be free of the immediate peril,
are in effect imprisoned.
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For the rest, one may guess that the Legislative, above all that the New
Municipality continues busy. Messengers, Municipal or Legislative, and
swift despatches rush off to all corners of France; full of triumph,
blended with indignant wail, for Twelve hundred have fallen. France sends
up its blended shout responsive; the Tenth of August shall be as the
Fourteenth of July, only bloodier and greater. The Court has conspired?
Poor Court: the Court has been vanquished; and will have both the scath to
bear and the scorn. How the Statues of Kings do now all fall! Bronze
Henri himself, though he wore a cockade once, jingles down from the Pont
Neuf, where Patrie floats in Danger.
Much more does Louis Fourteenth, from
the Place Vendôme, jingle down, and even breaks in falling. The curious
can remark, written on his horse's shoe: '12 Août 1692;' a Century and a
Day.
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Monarchy is in complete disrepute. The statues even of popular kings are
torn down.
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The Tenth of August was Friday. The week is not done, when our old Patriot
Ministry is recalled, what of it can be got: strict Roland, Genevese
Clavière; add heavy Monge the Mathematician, once a stone-hewer;
and, for
Minister of Justice, — Danton 'led hither,' as himself says, in one of his
gigantic figures, 'through the breach of Patriot cannon!' These, under
Legislative Committees, must rule the wreck as they can: confusedly
enough; with an old Legislative waterlogged, with a New Municipality so
brisk. But National Convention will get itself together; and then!
Without delay, however, let a New Jury-Court and Criminal Tribunal be set
up in Paris, to try the crimes and conspiracies of the Tenth. High Court
of Orléans is distant, slow: the blood of the Twelve hundred Patriots,
whatever become of other blood, shall be inquired after. Tremble, ye
Criminals and Conspirators; the Minister of Justice is Danton! Robespierre
too, after the victory, sits in the New Municipality; insurrectionary
'improvised Municipality,' which calls itself Council General of the
Commune.
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Provisional governments are established for the nation and for Paris pending
the election of the National Assembly.
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For three days now, Louis and his Family have heard the Legislative Debates
in the Lodge of the Logographe; and retired nightly to their small upper
rooms. The Luxembourg and safeguard of the Nation could not be got ready:
nay, it seems the Luxembourg has too many cellars and issues; no
Municipality can undertake to watch it. The compact Prison of the Temple,
not so elegant indeed, were much safer. To the Temple, therefore! On
Monday, 13th day of August 1792, in Mayor Pétion's carriage,
Louis and his
sad suspended Household, fare thither; all Paris out to look at them. As
they pass through the Place Vendôme Louis Fourteenth's Statue lies broken
on the ground. Pétion is afraid the Queen's looks
may be thought scornful,
and produce provocation; she casts down her eyes, and does not look at all.
The 'press is prodigious,' but quiet: here and there, it shouts Vive la
Nation; but for most part gazes in silence. French Royalty vanishes within
the gates of the Temple: these old peaked Towers, like peaked Extinguisher
or Bonsoir, do cover it up; —
from which same Towers, poor Jacques Molay and
his Templars were burnt out[156],
by French Royalty, five centuries since. Such
are the turns of Fate below. Foreign Ambassadors, English Lord Gower have
all demanded passports; are driving indignantly towards their respective
homes.
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Louis XVI and his family are imprisoned in the Temple. Foreign delegates to
the French court leave the country.
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So, then, the Constitution is over? For ever and a day! Gone is that
wonder of the Universe; First biennial Parliament, waterlogged, waits only
till the Convention come; and will then sink to endless depths.
One can guess the silent rage of Old-Constituents, Constitution-builders,
extinct Feuillants, men who thought the Constitution would march!
Lafayette rises to the altitude of the situation; at the head of his Army.
Legislative Commissioners are posting towards him and it, on the Northern
Frontier, to congratulate and perorate: he orders the Municipality of
Sedan to arrest these Commissioners, and keep them strictly in ward as
Rebels, till he say further. The Sedan Municipals obey.
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The end of the monarchy means the end of the monarchical Constitution.
Lafayette does not appear ready to stand for it.
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The Sedan Municipals obey: but the Soldiers of the Lafayette Army? The
Soldiers of the Lafayette Army have, as all Soldiers have, a kind of dim
feeling that they themselves are Sansculottes in buff belts; that the
victory of the Tenth of August is also a victory for them. They will not
rise and follow Lafayette to Paris; they will rise and send him thither!
On the 18th, which is but next Saturday, Lafayette, with some two or three
indignant Staff-officers, one of whom is Old-Constituent Alexandre de
Lameth?,
having first put his Lines in what order he could, — rides swiftly
over the Marches, towards Holland. Rides, alas, swiftly into the claws of
Austrians! He, long-wavering, trembling on the verge of the horizon, has
set, in Olmutz Dungeons; this History knows him no more. Adieu, thou Hero
of two worlds; thinnest, but compact honour-worthy man! Through long rough
night of captivity, through other tumults, triumphs and changes, thou wilt
swing well, 'fast-anchored to the Washington Formula;' and be the Hero and
Perfect-character, were it only of one idea. The Sedan Municipals repent
and protest; the Soldiers shout Vive la Nation.
Dumouriez?
Polymetis, from
his Camp at Maulde, sees himself made Commander in Chief.
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Lacking the support of his army, Lafayette crosses the lines to the
Austrians. He will be imprisoned in Austria for the next 6 years.
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And, O Brunswick! what sort of 'military execution' will Paris merit now?
Forward, ye well-drilled exterminatory men; with your artillery-waggons,
and camp kettles jingling. Forward, tall chivalrous King of Prussia;
fanfaronading Emigrants and war-god Broglie, 'for some consolation to
mankind,' which verily is not without need of some.
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It is up now to the Prussians, Austrians and emigrant royalists to
seek some measure of revenge.
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