Charlotte Corday.
In the leafy months of June and July, several French Departments
germinate a set of rebellious _paper_-leaves, named
Proclamations, Resolutions, Journals, or Diurnals “of the Union
for Resistance to Oppression.” In particular, the Town of Caen,
in Calvados, sees its paper-leaf of _Bulletin de Caen_ suddenly
bud, suddenly establish itself as Newspaper there; under the
Editorship of Girondin National Representatives!
For among the proscribed Girondins are certain of a more
desperate humour. Some, as Vergniaud, Valazé, Gensonné, “arrested
in their own houses” will await with stoical resignation what the
issue may be. Some, as Brissot, Rabaut, will take to flight, to
concealment; which, as the Paris Barriers are opened again in a
day or two, is not yet difficult. But others there are who will
rush, with Buzot, to Calvados; or far over France, to Lyons,
Toulon, Nantes and elsewhither, and then rendezvous at Caen: to
awaken as with war-trumpet the respectable Departments; and
strike down an anarchic Mountain Faction; at least not yield
without a stroke at it. Of this latter temper we count some score
or more, of the Arrested, and of the Not-yet-arrested; a Buzot, a
Barbaroux, Louvet, Guadet, Pétion, who have escaped from
Arrestment in their own homes; a Salles, a Pythagorean Valady, a
Duchâtel, the Duchâtel that came in blanket and nightcap to vote
for the life of Louis, who have escaped from danger and
likelihood of Arrestment. These, to the number at one time of
Twenty-seven, do accordingly lodge here, at the “_Intendance_, or
Departmental Mansion,” of the Town of Caen; welcomed by Persons
in Authority; welcomed and defrayed, having no money of their
own. And the _Bulletin de Caen_ comes forth, with the most
animating paragraphs: How the Bourdeaux Department, the Lyons
Department, this Department after the other is declaring itself;
sixty, or say sixty-nine, or seventy-two[654] respectable
Departments either declaring, or ready to declare. Nay
Marseilles, it seems, will march on Paris by itself, if need be.
So has Marseilles Town said, That she will march. But on the
other hand, that Montélimart Town has said, No thoroughfare; and
means even to “bury herself” under her own stone and mortar
first—of this be no mention in _Bulletin of Caen_.
Such animating paragraphs we read in this Newspaper; and
fervours, and eloquent sarcasm: tirades against the Mountain,
frame pen of Deputy Salles; which resemble, say friends, Pascal’s
_Provincials_. What is more to the purpose, these Girondins have
got a General in chief, one Wimpfen, formerly under Dumouriez;
also a secondary questionable General Puisaye, and others; and
are doing their best to raise a force for war. National
Volunteers, whosoever is of right heart: gather in, ye National
Volunteers, friends of Liberty; from our Calvados Townships, from
the Eure, from Brittany, from far and near; forward to Paris, and
extinguish Anarchy! Thus at Caen, in the early July days, there
is a drumming and parading, a perorating and consulting: Staff
and Army; Council; Club of _Carabots_, Anti-jacobin friends of
Freedom, to denounce atrocious Marat. With all which, and the
editing of _Bulletins_, a National Representative has his hands
full.
At Caen it is most animated; and, as one hopes, more or less
animated in the “Seventy-two Departments that adhere to us.” And
in a France begirt with Cimmerian invading Coalitions, and torn
with an internal La Vendée, _this_ is the conclusion we have
arrived at: to put down Anarchy by Civil War! _Durum et durum_,
the Proverb says, _non faciunt murum_. La Vendée burns: Santerre
can do nothing there; he may return home and brew beer. Cimmerian
bombshells fly all along the North. That Siege of Mentz is become
famed;—lovers of the Picturesque (as Goethe will testify), washed
country-people of both sexes, stroll thither on Sundays, to see
the artillery work and counterwork; “you only duck a little while
the shot whizzes past.”[655] Condé is capitulating to the
Austrians; Royal Highness of York, these several weeks, fiercely
batters Valenciennes. For, alas, our fortified Camp of Famars was
stormed; General Dampierre was killed; General Custine was
blamed,—and indeed is now come to Paris to give “explanations.”
Against all which the Mountain and atrocious Marat must even make
head as they can. They, anarchic Convention as they are, publish
Decrees, expostulatory, explanatory, yet not without severity;
they ray forth Commissioners, singly or in pairs, the
olive-branch in one hand, yet the sword in the other.
Commissioners come even to Caen; but without effect. Mathematical
Romme, and Prieur named of the Côte d’Or, venturing thither, with
their olive and sword, are packed into prison: there may Romme
lie, under lock and key, “for fifty days;” and meditate his New
Calendar, if he please. Cimmeria and Civil War! Never was
Republic One and Indivisible at a lower ebb.—
Amid which dim ferment of Caen and the World, History specially
notices one thing: in the lobby of the Mansion _de l’Intendance_,
where busy Deputies are coming and going, a young Lady with an
aged valet, taking grave graceful leave of Deputy Barbaroux.[656]
She is of stately Norman figure; in her twenty-fifth year; of
beautiful still countenance: her name is Charlotte Corday,
heretofore styled d’Armans, while Nobility still was. Barbaroux
has given her a Note to Deputy Duperret,—him who once drew his
sword in the effervescence. Apparently she will to Paris on some
errand? “She was a Republican before the Revolution, and never
wanted energy.” A completeness, a decision is in this fair female
Figure: “by energy she means the spirit that will prompt one to
sacrifice himself for his country.” What if she, this fair young
Charlotte, had emerged from her secluded stillness, suddenly like
a Star; cruel-lovely, with half-angelic, half-demonic splendour;
to gleam for a moment, and in a moment be extinguished: to be
held in memory, so bright complete was she, through long
centuries!—Quitting Cimmerian Coalitions without, and the
dim-simmering Twenty-five millions within, History will look
fixedly at this one fair Apparition of a Charlotte Corday; will
note whither Charlotte moves, how the little Life burns forth so
radiant, then vanishes swallowed of the Night.
With Barbaroux’s Note of Introduction, and slight stock of
luggage, we see Charlotte, on Tuesday the ninth of July, seated
in the Caen Diligence, with a place for Paris. None takes
farewell of her, wishes her Good-journey: her Father will find a
line left, signifying that she is gone to England, that he must
pardon her and forget her. The drowsy Diligence lumbers along;
amid drowsy talk of Politics, and praise of the Mountain; in
which she mingles not; all night, all day, and again all night.
On Thursday, not long before none, we are at the Bridge of
Neuilly; here is Paris with her thousand black domes,—the goal
and purpose of thy journey! Arrived at the Inn de la Providence
in the Rue des Vieux Augustins, Charlotte demands a room; hastens
to bed; sleeps all afternoon and night, till the morrow morning.
On the morrow morning, she delivers her Note to Duperret. It
relates to certain Family Papers which are in the Minister of the
Interior’s hand; which a Nun at Caen, an old Convent-friend of
Charlotte’s, has need of; which Duperret shall assist her in
getting: this then was Charlotte’s errand to Paris? She has
finished this, in the course of Friday;—yet says nothing of
returning. She has seen and silently investigated several things.
The Convention, in bodily reality, she has seen; what the
Mountain is like. The living physiognomy of Marat she could not
see; he is sick at present, and confined to home.
About eight on the Saturday morning, she purchases a large
sheath-knife in the Palais Royal; then straightway, in the Place
des Victoires, takes a hackney-coach: ‘To the Rue de l’Ecole de
Médecine, No. 44.’ It is the residence of the Citoyen Marat!—The
Citoyen Marat is ill, and cannot be seen; which seems to
disappoint her much. Her business is with Marat, then? Hapless
beautiful Charlotte; hapless squalid Marat! From Caen in the
utmost West, from Neuchâtel in the utmost East, they two are
drawing nigh each other; they two have, very strangely, business
together.—Charlotte, returning to her Inn, despatches a short
Note to Marat; signifying that she is from Caen, the seat of
rebellion; that she desires earnestly to see him, and “will put
it in his power to do France a great service.” No answer.
Charlotte writes another Note, still more pressing; sets out with
it by coach, about seven in the evening, herself. Tired
day-labourers have again finished their Week; huge Paris is
circling and simmering, manifold, according to its vague wont:
this one fair Figure has decision in it; drives straight,—towards
a purpose.
It is yellow July evening, we say, the thirteenth of the month;
eve of the Bastille day,—when “M. Marat,” four years ago, in the
crowd of the Pont Neuf, shrewdly required of that Besenval
Hussar-party, which had such friendly dispositions, ‘to dismount,
and give up their arms, then;’ and became notable among Patriot
men! Four years: what a road he has travelled;—and sits now,
about half-past seven of the clock, stewing in slipper-bath; sore
afflicted; ill of Revolution Fever,—of what other malady this
History had rather not name. Excessively sick and worn, poor man:
with precisely elevenpence-halfpenny of ready money, in paper;
with slipper-bath; strong three-footed stool for writing on, the
while; and a squalid—Washerwoman, one may call her: that is his
civic establishment in Medical-School Street; thither and not
elsewhither has his road led him. Not to the reign of Brotherhood
and Perfect Felicity; yet surely on the way towards that?—Hark, a
rap again! A musical woman’s-voice, refusing to be rejected: it
is the Citoyenne who would do France a service. Marat,
recognising from within, cries, Admit her. Charlotte Corday is
admitted.
Citoyen Marat, I am from Caen the seat of rebellion, and wished
to speak with you.—Be seated, _mon enfant_. Now what are the
Traitors doing at Caen? What Deputies are at Caen?—Charlotte
names some Deputies. ‘Their heads shall fall within a fortnight,’
croaks the eager People’s-Friend, clutching his tablets to write:
_Barbaroux, Pétion_, writes he with bare shrunk arm, turning
aside in the bath: _Pétion_, and _Louvet_, and—Charlotte has
drawn her knife from the sheath; plunges it, with one sure
stroke, into the writer’s heart. ‘_À moi, chère amie_, Help,
dear!’ No more could the Death-choked say or shriek. The helpful
Washerwoman running in, there is no Friend of the People, or
Friend of the Washerwoman, left; but his life with a groan gushes
out, indignant, to the shades below.[657]
And so Marat People’s-Friend is ended; the lone Stylites has got
hurled down suddenly from his Pillar,—_whitherward_ He that made
him does know. Patriot Paris may sound triple and tenfold, in
dole and wail; re-echoed by Patriot France; and the Convention,
“Chabot pale with terror declaring that they are to be all
assassinated,” may decree him Pantheon Honours, Public Funeral,
Mirabeau’s dust making way for him; and Jacobin Societies, in
lamentable oratory, summing up his character, parallel him to
One, whom they think it honour to call “the good
Sansculotte,”—whom we name not here.[658] Also a Chapel may be
made, for the urn that holds his Heart, in the Place du
Carrousel; and new-born children be named Marat; and Lago-de-Como
Hawkers bake mountains of stucco into unbeautiful Busts; and
David paint his Picture, or Death-scene; and such other
Apotheosis take place as the human genius, in these
circumstances, can devise: but Marat returns no more to the light
of this Sun. One sole circumstance we have read with clear
sympathy, in the old _Moniteur_ Newspaper: how Marat’s brother
comes from Neuchâtel to ask of the Convention “that the deceased
Jean-Paul Marat’s musket be given him.”[659] For Marat too had a
brother, and natural affections; and was wrapt once in
swaddling-clothes, and slept safe in a cradle like the rest of
us. Ye children of men!—A sister of his, they say, lives still to
this day in Paris.
As for Charlotte Corday her work is accomplished; the recompense
of it is near and sure. The _chère amie_, and neighbours of the
house, flying at her, she “overturns some movables,” entrenches
herself till the gendarmes arrive; then quietly surrenders; goes
quietly to the Abbaye Prison: she alone quiet, all Paris sounding
in wonder, in rage or admiration, round her. Duperret is put in
arrest, on account of her; his Papers sealed,—which may lead to
consequences. Fauchet, in like manner; though Fauchet had not so
much as heard of her. Charlotte, confronted with these two
Deputies, praises the grave firmness of Duperret, censures the
dejection of Fauchet.
On Wednesday morning, the thronged Palais de Justice and
Revolutionary Tribunal can see her face; beautiful and calm: she
dates it “fourth day of the Preparation of Peace.” A strange
murmur ran through the Hall, at sight of her; you could not say
of what character.[660] Tinville has his indictments and
tape-papers the cutler of the Palais Royal will testify that he
sold her the sheath-knife; ‘all these details are needless,’
interrupted Charlotte; ‘it is I that killed Marat.’ By whose
instigation?—‘By no one’s.’ What tempted you, then? His crimes.
‘I killed one man,’ added she, raising her voice extremely
(_extrêmement_), as they went on with their questions, ‘I killed
one man to save a hundred thousand; a villain to save innocents;
a savage wild-beast to give repose to my country. I was a
Republican before the Revolution; I never wanted energy.’ There
is therefore nothing to be said. The public gazes astonished: the
hasty limners sketch her features, Charlotte not disapproving;
the men of law proceed with their formalities. The doom is Death
as a murderess. To her Advocate she gives thanks; in gentle
phrase, in high-flown classical spirit. To the Priest they send
her she gives thanks; but needs not any shriving, or ghostly or
other aid from him.
On this same evening, therefore, about half-past seven o’clock,
from the gate of the Conciergerie, to a City all on tiptoe, the
fatal Cart issues: seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in
red smock of Murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life;
journeying towards death,—alone amid the world. Many take off
their hats, saluting reverently; for what heart but must be
touched?[661] Others growl and howl. Adam Lux, of Mentz, declares
that she is greater than Brutus; that it were beautiful to die
with her: the head of this young man seems turned. At the Place
de la Révolution, the countenance of Charlotte wears the same
still smile. The executioners proceed to bind her feet; she
resists, thinking it meant as an insult; on a word of
explanation, she submits with cheerful apology. As the last act,
all being now ready, they take the neckerchief from her neck: a
blush of maidenly shame overspreads that fair face and neck; the
cheeks were still tinged with it, when the executioner lifted the
severed head, to shew it to the people. “It is most true,” says
Foster, “that he struck the cheek insultingly; for I saw it with
my eyes: the Police imprisoned him for it.”[662]
In this manner have the Beautifullest and the Squalidest come in
collision, and extinguished one another. Jean-Paul Marat and
Marie-Anne Charlotte Corday both, suddenly, are no more. “Day of
the Preparation of Peace?” Alas, how were peace possible or
preparable, while, for example, the hearts of lovely Maidens, in
their convent-stillness, are dreaming not of Love-paradises, and
the light of Life; but of Codrus’-sacrifices, and death well
earned? That Twenty-five million hearts have got to such temper,
this _is_ the Anarchy; the soul of it lies in this: whereof not
peace can be the embodyment! The death of Marat, whetting old
animosities tenfold, will be worse than any life. O ye hapless
Two, mutually extinctive, the Beautiful and the Squalid, sleep ye
well,—in the Mother’s bosom that bore you both!
This was the History of Charlotte Corday; most definite, most
complete; angelic-demonic: like a Star! Adam Lux goes home,
half-delirious; to pour forth his Apotheosis of her, in paper and
print; to propose that she have a statue with this inscription,
_Greater than Brutus_. Friends represent his danger; Lux is
reckless; thinks it were beautiful to die with her.