When, in May, 1793, Robespierre and the Mountain effected the final
overthrow of the Girondists--the moderate party of the French
revolutionists--M. Roland, who had recently resigned his office in the
ministry, was forced to flee, and his wife was thrown into prison. To
solace the sad hours of her captivity, she began to write her own
Memoirs. "I propose to myself," she says, "to employ the leisure hours
of my captivity in relating the history of my life, from my infancy to
the present time. Thus to retrace the steps of one's career is to live
a second time; and what better can a prisoner do than, by a happy
fiction, or by interesting recollections, to transport herself from
her prison?"
Her Memoirs are dated at the "Prison of St. Pelagie, August 9th,
1793," and she thus commences: "Daughter of an artist, wife of a
philosopher, who, when a minister of state, remained a man of virtue;
now a prisoner, destined, perhaps, to a violent and unexpected
death,--I have known happiness and adversity; I have learned what
glory is, and have suffered injustice. Born in an humble condition,
but of respectable parents, I passed my youth in the bosom of the
arts, and amidst the delights of study; knowing no superiority but
that of merit, no grandeur but that of virtue."
Her father, Gratien Philipon, was an engraver. During the early years
of Manon's life, he was well off, employing many workmen under him.
His wife possessed little of what is called knowledge, but she had a
discerning judgment and a gentle and affectionate disposition. By her
example, as well as by the course of education which her disposition
led her to pursue, she formed in her daughter the same gentle,
feminine spirit which she herself possessed.
"The wisdom and kindness of my mother," says Madame Roland, "quickly
acquired over my gentle and tender character an ascendency which was
used only for my good. It was so great that, in those slight,
inevitable differences between reason which governs and childhood
which resists, she had need to resort to no other punishment than to
call me, coldly, _Mademoiselle_, and to regard me with a severe
countenance. I feel, even now, the impression made on me by her look,
which at other times was so tender and caressing. I hear, almost with
shivering, the word _mademoiselle_ substituted for the sweet name of
_daughter_, or the tender appellation of _Manon_. Yes, Manon; it was
thus they called me: I am sorry for the lovers of romances, the name
is not noble; it suits not a dignified heroine; but, nevertheless, it
was mine, and it is a history that I am writing. But the most
fastidious would have been reconciled to the name, had they heard my
mother pronounce it, or had they seen her who bore it. No expression
wanted grace, when accompanied by the affectionate tone of my mother;
when her touching voice penetrated my soul, did it teach me to
resemble her? Lively without being ever rompish, and naturally
retiring, I asked only to be occupied, and seized with quickness the
ideas which were presented to me. This disposition was so well taken
advantage of, that I do not remember learning to read: I have heard
that I did so before I was four years old, and that, after that time,
nothing more was required than to supply me with books."
Her passion for these was subjected to little guidance or control; she
read whatever chance threw in her way; they were, for the most part,
of a serious character--Locke, Pascal, Burlamaque, Montesquieu;
relieved, however, by works on history, the poems of Voltaire, Don
Quixote, and some of the popular romances; but, as these were few in
number, she was compelled to read them often, and thus acquired a
habit of thought. When she was nine years old, Plutarch's Lives fell
in her way, and more delighted her than any romance or fairy tale. The
book became her bosom companion; and from that moment, she says, "she
dated the ideas and impressions which made her a republican without
her knowing that she was becoming one."
"But this child, who was accustomed to read serious books, could
explain the circles of the celestial sphere, could use the pencil and
the graver, and at eight years old was the best dancer in a party of
girls older than herself, assembled for a family festival. The same
child was often called to the kitchen to prepare an omelette, wash
herbs, or to skim the pot. This mixture of grave studies, agreeable
exercise, and domestic cares, ordered and regulated by the wisdom of
my mother, rendered me fit for all circumstances, seemed to
anticipate the vicissitudes of my fortune, and has aided me in bearing
them. I feel nowhere out of place; I can prepare my soup with as much
ease as Philopemon cut wood, though no one seeing me would deem that
such a task was fitted for me."
The study of Plutarch and the ancient historians was not, perhaps,
favorable to the happiness of Mademoiselle Philipon. She regretted
that her lot had not been cast in a free state, which she had
persuaded herself was the only nursery of virtue, generosity, and
wisdom. She contrasted the state of society, as she saw it around her,
with the ideal state of its existence in ancient Greece and Rome. She
had once paid a visit of eight days to Versailles, and witnessed the
routine of the court. How different were the weak and dissolute actors
upon that tinsel and tawdry stage from the heroes and philosophers
with whom she was wont, in imagination, to associate! She "sorrowfully
compared the Asiatic luxury, the insolent pomp, with the abject misery
of the degraded people, who ran after the idols of their own creating,
and stupidly applauded the brilliant shows for which they paid out of
their own absolute necessaries." Sometimes she was taken to visit
certain ladies who called themselves noble, and who, looking upon her
as an inferior, sent her to dine with the servants. But their airs of
condescending kindness were even yet more offensive, and made her
bosom swell with indignant emotion. She acknowledges that this feeling
made her hail the revolution with greater transport.
The daughter of a prosperous tradesman, she had many suitors of her
own rank; but she had formed to herself a _beau ideal_ of wedded life
which none but a man of education could satisfy; they were all
rejected. A physician proposed; more refinement and knowledge was to
be expected in the learned professions; she hesitated, but he also was
rejected. In the mean time, her father's habits began to change; he
became a speculator, fond of pleasure and careless of his business.
His speculations failed, and his customers left him. Her mother
witnessed the approach of poverty with anxiety; she feared for her
daughter alone, for her own health was so feeble, that she could look
only for a short term of life. She wished to see her daughter's
happiness made as secure as possible, and tried to persuade her to
accept the addresses of a young jeweller who had health and a good
character to recommend him; but Manon wished to find in her husband a
companion and a guide.
Her mother died; and intense grief overwhelmed the daughter, both body
and mind. It was long before she could be roused to any exertion from
that melancholy "which made her a burden to herself and others." At
this moment, the "Nouvelle Heloise" was placed in her hands; it
excited her attention, and called her thoughts from her loss. "I was
twenty-one," she says, "and Rousseau made the same impression on me as
Plutarch had done when I was eight. Plutarch had disposed me to
republicanism; he had awakened the energy and pride which are its
characteristics; he inspired me with a true enthusiasm for public
virtue and freedom. Rousseau showed me domestic happiness, and the
ineffable felicity I was capable of tasting." She now returned to her
studies. Her friends, among whom she numbered some literary men,
finding that she committed her reflections to writing, predicted that
she would become an author. But she was not ambitious of public
distinction; she had adopted the sentiment of Rousseau, that the
"dignity of woman is in being unknown; her glory, in the esteem of her
husband; her pleasures, in the happiness of her family." "I saw," says
Madame Roland, "that an authoress loses more than she gains. My chief
object was my own happiness, and I never knew the public interfere
with that for any one without spoiling it; there is nothing more
delightful than to be appreciated by those with whom one lives, and
nothing so empty as the admiration of those whom we are never to
meet."
In her school-girl days, Manon had formed a friendship with a girl of
her own age, named Sophia, and the intercourse was still kept up by
letters. Sophia felt the highest admiration for her friend, and often
spoke of it. Among those who, through her, became acquainted with
Manon's character was M. Roland, a man whose great simplicity of
character and strict integrity had gained for him universal esteem and
confidence. His family was not of the ancient nobles, but of official
dignity. He was fond of study, and laborious in the pursuit of
knowledge. He had long sought for an introduction to Mademoiselle
Philipon, and Sophia at length gave him a letter of introduction.
"This letter," she writes, "will be given you by the philosopher I
have often mentioned, M. Roland, an enlightened and excellent man, who
can only be reproached for his great admiration of the ancients at
the expense of the moderns, whom he despises, and his weakness in
liking to talk too much about himself."
M. Roland's appearance was not calculated to make a favorable
impression upon a young woman; his manners were cold and stiff; he was
careless in his dress, and he had passed the meridian of life. But
Mademoiselle Philipon discerned and appreciated his excellence, and
received him to her friendship and confidence. For five years, this
intercourse between them continued, before he disclosed to her the
sentiments of love which had been making a slow, but deeply-rooted,
growth in his heart. His proposal of marriage was not distasteful to
her; but she was proud, and did not like to encounter the opposition
which the match with a girl of humble birth would meet with from his
family. Roland persisted in his addresses, and she at length referred
him to her father. Philipon did not like the terms of his letter, and
returned a rude answer, rejecting the proffered alliance.
The result, though anticipated by Manon, was a great disappointment to
her, and the manner in which her father had conducted, shocked her
feelings. She had a great cause for anxiety in his general management;
his affairs were fast approaching utter ruin; extreme poverty was
before her; she resolved to secure her own independence, and purchased
an annuity of about one hundred and twenty dollars. With this she
hired a room in a convent, and lived upon the simplest food, which she
prepared for herself: her wants were strictly limited by her means.
Six months elapsed, and M. Roland once more presented himself to her
at the convent. He renewed his offer, and it was accepted. "I
reflected deeply," says Madame Roland, "on what I ought to do. I could
not conceal from myself that a younger man would not have delayed, for
several months, entreating me to change my resolution, and I confess
this circumstance had deprived my feelings of every illusion. I
considered, on the other hand, that this deliberation was an assurance
that I was appreciated; and that, if he had overcome his pride, which
shrunk from the disagreeable circumstances that accompanied his
marrying me, I was the more secure of an esteem I could not fail to
preserve. In short, if marriage was, as I thought, an austere union,
an association in which the woman usually burdens herself with the
happiness of two individuals, it were better that I should exert my
abilities and my courage in so honorable a task, than in the solitude
in which I lived."
Such were the feelings with which she married. She was then twenty-six
years old. She discharged with fidelity the duties she assumed. She
was her husband's friend and companion, and soon became absolutely
necessary to him. With him she visited England and Switzerland, and
finally they took up their abode at the family mansion near Lyons. She
had one child, a daughter; and to educate her, and make her husband
and those about her happy, was apparently to be the whole scope of her
life. At this period, she writes to a friend, "Seated in my chimney
corner, at eleven before noon, after a peaceful night and my morning
tasks,--my husband at his desk, and my little girl knitting,--I am
conversing with the former, and overlooking the work of the letter;
enjoying the happiness of being warmly sheltered in the bosom of my
dear little family, and writing to a friend, while the snow is falling
on so many poor wretches overwhelmed by sorrow and penury. I grieve
over their fate. I repose on my own, and make no account of those
family annoyances, which appeared formerly to tarnish my felicity."
The revolution came to disturb this peaceful existence. At first she
hailed it with joy; but fears soon arose. "Is the question," she says,
"to be whether we have one tyrant or a hundred?" She attached herself
zealously to that party which advocated liberty without anarchy. The
confusion of the times proved destructive to the manufacturing
interests of Lyons; twenty thousand workmen were thrown out of
employment, and were without means of support. M. Roland was selected
to proceed to Paris to make known the distresses to the National
Assembly, and to solicit relief.
The Girondists held opinions most in consonance with her own; her
house at Paris soon became the rendezvous of that party; and her
talents, beauty, and enthusiasm, insensibly procured for her a great
influence in their councils. A late historian thus speaks of her:
"Roland was known for his clever writings on manufactures and
mechanics. This man, of austere life, inflexible principles, and cold,
repulsive manners, yielded, without being aware, to the superior
ascendency of his wife. She was young and beautiful. Nourished in
seclusion by philosophical and republican sentiments, she had
conceived ideas superior to her sex, and had erected a strict
religion from the then reigning opinions. Living in intimate
friendship with her husband, she wrote for him, communicated her
vivacity and ardor, not only to him, but to all the Girondists, who,
enthusiastic in the cause of liberty and philosophy, adored beauty and
talent, and their own opinions in her." But she carefully guarded
against appearing to exert influence. Present at the councils held at
her own house, she sat apart, and, apparently engaged in needle-work
or in writing, took no part in the public deliberations; but her
opinions were freely expressed in private to the leaders of the party,
who eagerly engaged with her in discussion.
The flight of the king filled her with alarm; his arrest and
return to Paris excited new hopes; she looked for safety only in his
dethronement, and in the establishment of a republican form of
government; but for this she hardly dared hope. "It would be a
folly, an absurdity, almost a horror," she writes to a friend at this
time, "to replace the king on the throne. To bring Louis XVI. to
trial, would doubtless be the greatest and most just of measures;
but we are incapable of adopting it."
At the end of seven months, Roland's mission terminated, and he
returned to Lyons. But Madame Roland could no longer be happy in the
quiet, domestic circle; her discontent thus expresses itself in a
letter to a friend, but, unwittingly perhaps, does not assign it to
the true cause: "I see with regret that my husband is cast back on
silence and obscurity. He is habituated to public life; his energy and
activity injure his health when not exercised according to his
inclinations; in addition, I had hoped for great advantages for my
child in a residence at Paris. Occupied there by her education, I
should have excited and developed some sort of talent. The recluse
life I lead here makes me tremble for her. From the moment that my
husband has no occupation but his desks, I must remain near to amuse
him, according to a duty and a habit which may not be eluded. This
existence is exactly opposite to that suitable for a child of ten. My
heart is saddened by this opposition of duties. I find myself fallen
into the nullity of a provincial life, where no exterior circumstances
supply that which I cannot do myself. If I believed my husband were
satisfied, hope would embellish the prospect. However, our destiny is
fixed, and I must try to render it as happy as I can."
But the truth was, that her life at Paris had opened a new prospect to
Madame Roland, and excited new desires in her bosom. Her activity and
enthusiasm longed to employ themselves upon a grand theatre, and she
panted to become great, as Plutarch's heroes were great, and to go
down to posterity as one of the founders of her country's freedom.
She was soon restored to the wished-for scene of action. In December,
1792, her husband was appointed minister of the interior. She relates
with great good-humor the surprise which her husband's plain,
citizen-like costume excited at court. The master of ceremonies
pointed him out to Dumoriez with an angry and agitated mien,
exclaiming, "Ah, sir, no buckles to his shoes!" "Ah, sir," replied
Dumoriez, with mock gravity, "all is lost!"
Two measures, which the liberal party deemed essential, were presented
to the king by the ministry, but were rejected by him. The party urged
the ministers, as a body, to remonstrate; but a majority declined.
Madame Roland insisted that her husband should individually present a
remonstrance, which she prepared for him; it was couched in bold and
menacing language, and rather calculated to irritate than to persuade
the king. Roland read it to the king in full council; he listened
patiently to his minister's rebuke, but the next day dismissed him
from his office.
Satisfied with having discharged their duty to liberty, Roland and his
wife felt no regret at the loss of office. They ceased to meddle with
politics, and led a retired life, with the fearful anticipation that
the intervention of foreign troops would soon put an end to all their
hopes of constitutional freedom. Her appearance and manners at this
period of her life are thus described by one who visited her: "Her
eyes, her figure, and hair, were of remarkable beauty; her delicate
complexion had a freshness and color, which, joined to her reserved
yet ingenuous appearance, imparted a singular air of youth. She spoke
well, and without affectation; wit, good sense, propriety of
expression, keen reasoning, natural grace, all flowing without effort
from her rosy lips. Her husband resembled a Quaker, and she looked
like his daughter. Her child flitted about her with ringlets down to
her waist. She spoke of public affairs only, and I perceived that my
moderation inspired pity. Her mind was excited, but her heart remained
gentle. Although the monarchy was not yet overturned, she did not
conceal that symptoms of anarchy began to appear, and she declared
herself ready to resist them to death. I remember the calm and
resolute tone in which she declared that she was ready, if need were,
to place her head on the block. I confess that the image of that
charming head delivered over to the axe of the executioner made an
ineffaceable impression; for party excesses had not yet accustomed us
to such frightful ideas."
The fomenters of disturbance and the friends of anarchy were the party
of the _Mountain_, at the head of which were Robespierre, Danton,
Marat, &c. To this party the known moderation of Madame Roland made
her peculiarly obnoxious. When, after the suspension of the royal
authority, consequent on the events of the 10th of August, it was
proposed in the National Convention to recall Roland to the ministry,
one of the party exclaimed, "We had better invite madame; she is the
real minister." He was reinstated in his office, and maintained for a
short time an unflinching struggle with the anarchists; but his
efforts were not supported by others; and, wearied out, he tendered
his resignation. The Mountain urged its acceptance, but the only
charges against him were complaints of his feebleness, and of his
being governed by his wife. The Girondists yet held the ascendency in
the Convention, and his resignation was not accepted. At the entreaty
of his friends, he consented to remain, and wrote thus to the
Convention: "Since I am calumniated, since I am threatened by dangers,
and since the Convention appear to desire it, I remain. It is too
glorious that my alliance with courage and virtue is the only reproach
made against me."
Madame Roland has herself offered an apology for her interference in
the business of her husband. In the early days of their marriage, she
had acted as his amanuensis, and had faithfully copied what he wrote.
But the dryness of his style did not suit her taste, and she began to
amend his writings. At length, having a perfect agreement in views and
opinions with her husband, he entirely yielded up to her the pen. "I
could not express any thing," she says, "that regarded reason or
justice, which he was not capable of realizing or maintaining with his
conduct; while I expressed better than he could whatever he had done
or promised to do. Without my intervention, Roland had been an equally
good agent; his activity and knowledge, as well as his probity, were
all his own; but he produced a greater sensation through me, since I
put into his writings that mixture of energy and gentleness, of
authority and persuasion, which is peculiar to a woman of a warm heart
and a clear head. I wrote with delight such pieces as I thought would
be useful, and I took greater pleasure in them than I should have done
had I been their acknowledged author."
Roland continued his struggle against the Mountain, who were daily
gaining strength. Although in a minority in the Convention, they were
all powerful with the mob; and the knowledge of this, together with
their menaces, induced some of the more timid Girondists to vote for
their savage measures. Of the frightful state of affairs at Paris,
Madame Roland thus writes to a friend: "We are under the knife of
Robespierre and Marat. These men agitate the people, and endeavor to
turn them against the Assembly and Council; they have a little army,
which they pay with money stolen from the Tuileries." Again she
writes, "Danton leads all; Robespierre is his puppet; Marat holds his
torch and dagger; this ferocious tribune reigns, and we are his slaves
until the moment when we shall become his victims. You are aware of my
enthusiasm for the revolution; well, I am ashamed of it; it is
deformed by monsters, and become hideous. It is degrading to remain,
but we are not allowed to quit Paris; they shut us up to murder us
when occasion serves."
At length, disheartened by his unavailing efforts to stem the tide of
anarchy, Roland again resigned his office; and, satisfied that
remaining at Paris could be of no advantage to their country, he and
his wife began their preparations for retiring to the country. Her
illness caused a delay, and they were yet in Paris when the final
overthrow of the Girondists left them no hope for safety but in
flight. An order was issued by the Convention for the arrest of
Roland: his wife resolved to appeal in person to the Assembly in his
behalf. Veiled and alone, she hurried to the place of meeting. She was
not admitted: she sent in a letter, soliciting to be heard; but it
received no attention. Sadly she left the national palace, sought out
her husband, related to him her want of success, and then returned to
make another effort to be heard. The Convention was no longer sitting.
She returned home: her husband was in a place of security; and,
indifferent to her own fate, she resolved to await whatever might
happen.
At a late hour of the night she retired to rest, but was soon roused
by her servant, who announced to her that a party of soldiers had
come to arrest her. The sanguinary shouts of the mob saluted her as
she passed through the streets. "Shall I close the windows?" said an
officer who rode with her in the carriage. "No," replied she;
"innocence, however oppressed, will never assume the appearance of
guilt. I fear the eyes of no one, and will not hide myself." "You have
more firmness than most men," said the officer.
Her plans for prison life were at once arranged: she asked and
obtained a few books, Plutarch being of the number. The situation of
the poorer class of prisoners exciting her pity, she restricted
herself to the most abstemious diet, and distributed the money which
she thus saved among them.
At the end of about three weeks, a most cruel deception was practised
upon her. She was told that she was free, and left the prison; but, on
reaching home, she was again arrested, and carried to a new prison, in
which the lowest and most infamous criminals of both sexes were
confined. A few hours' reflection restored the equanimity which this
outrage had disturbed. "Had I not my books?" she says; "was I no
longer myself? I was almost angry at having felt disturbed, and
thought only of making use of my life, and employing my faculties with
that independence which a strong mind preserves even in chains, and
which disappoints one's most cruel enemies."
At first, she was confined in the midst of the most abandoned of her
sex; but, after a time, the wife of the jailer took compassion on her,
and removed her to a more retired apartment. Nor did this humane woman
stop here; she sought in every way to soften the rigors of
imprisonment. Jasmine was twined round the bars of her window; a
piano-forte was provided, with every comfort which her narrow quarters
would allow. A few friends were allowed to visit her: she learned that
her husband and child were in safety; she became almost happy. But her
quiet was soon disturbed. The visitor of the prison was angry at the
comforts which she enjoyed; equality must be preserved, and he ordered
her to be removed to a common cell.
At one period she meditated suicide. There was no accusation against
her, and she saw herself left behind in the daily drafts for the
guillotine. "Two months ago," she writes, "I aspired to the honor of
ascending the scaffold. Victims were still allowed to speak, and the
energy of great courage might have been of service to truth. Now all
is lost; to live is basely to submit to a ferocious rule." But her
purpose was changed when she found herself included in the act of
accusation against the chief Girondists. She expected to be examined
before the Revolutionary Tribunal, and hoped to do some good by
courageously speaking the truth.
On the 31st of October, 1792, she was transferred to the prison of the
Conciergerie, a yet more squalid place of confinement. Her examination
commenced the next day, and was continued for several days. The charge
against her was holding intercourse with the Girondists. Her defence,
which was written out, but not spoken, is eloquent and full of
feeling. She was, of course, declared guilty, and sentenced to be
executed within twenty-four hours.
Even during these few eventful days, she was not occupied entirely
with self. Many of her hours were devoted to the consolation of her
fellow-victims. She who was a prisoner with her thus speaks of her:
"Perfectly aware of the fate that awaited her, her tranquillity was
not disturbed. Though past the bloom of life, she was yet full of
attractions: tall, and of an elegant figure, her physiognomy was
animated; but sorrow and long imprisonment had left traces of
melancholy in her face that tempered her natural vivacity. Something
more than is usually found in the eyes of woman beamed in her large,
dark eyes, full of sweetness and expression. She often spoke to me at
the grate with the freedom and courage of a great man. This republican
language, falling from the lips of a pretty woman, for whom the
scaffold was prepared, was a miracle of the revolution. We gathered
attentively around her in a species of admiration and stupor. Her
conversation was serious, without being cold. She spoke with a purity,
a melody, and a measure, which rendered her language a sort of music,
of which the ear was never tired. Sometimes her sex had the mastery,
and we perceived that she had wept over the recollections of her
husband and daughter. The woman who attended her said to me one day,
'Before you she calls up all her courage; but in her room she
sometimes remains for hours leaning on the window, weeping.'"
She was led to execution on the 10th of November. On the way she
exerted herself to restore the failing fortitude of a fellow-sufferer,
and won from him, it is said, two smiles. On arriving at the place of
execution, she bowed to the statue of Liberty, saying, "O Liberty,
how many crimes are committed in thy name!" She bade her companion
ascend the scaffold first, that he might escape the pain of seeing her
die. To the last, she preserved her courage and dignity of manner.
The news of her death reached her husband at Rouen. He resolved not to
outlive her. He doubted whether to surrender himself to the
Revolutionary Tribunal, or to commit suicide. He decided on the latter
course, in order to save for his child his property, which by law
would be confiscated if he died by the judgment of a court. On the
15th of November, he was found dead on the road to Paris, four miles
from Rouen. In his pocket was found a paper, setting forth the reasons
for his death--"The blood that flows in torrents in my country
dictates my resolve; indignation caused me to quit my retreat. As soon
as I heard of the murder of my wife, I determined no longer to remain
on the earth tainted by crime."