Grande Acceptation.
In the last nights of September, when the autumnal equinox is
past, and grey September fades into brown October, why are the
Champs Elysées 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 the new Social
Edifice, and first raise heat and reek there, in the name of
Hope.
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![403]
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: 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.”[404] 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 _sacre_ing with knit brows, poured a volley
into Besenval’s Prince de Lambesc! History waves them her mute
adieu.
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!
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.”[405] 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?
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 Legislative;_ 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.
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.[406]
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.
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! 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.
Welcomer meanwhile, welcome surely to all right hearts, is
Lafayette’s chivalrous Amnesty. Welcome too is that hard-wrung
Union of Avignon; 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.[407] 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.
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.
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?
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. 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.
Honoré:—O resolute-tremulous incorruptible seagreen man, towards
_what_ a destiny!
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.
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 Today its father is. Our new
biennial Legislative begins to constitute itself on the first of
October, 1791.