was demanded, and supported on all sides. It was now half-past five, and
the sitting was suspended till seven. Robespierre was transferred to the
Luxembourg. The commune, after having ordered the gaolers not to receive
him, sent municipal officers with detachments to bring him away.
Robespierre was liberated, and conducted in triumph to the Hôtel de
Ville. On arriving, he was received with the greatest enthusiasm. "Long
live Robespierre! Down with the traitors!" resounded on all sides. But
the Convention marched upon the Hôtel de Ville.
The conspirators, finding they were lost, sought to escape the violence
of their enemies by committing violence on themselves. Robespierre
shattered his jaw with a pistol shot. He was deposited for some time at
the Committee of Public Safety before he was transferred to the
Conciergerie; and here, stretched on a table, his face disfigured and
bloody, exposed to the looks, the invectives, the curses of all, he
beheld the various parties exulting in his fall, and charging upon him
all the crimes that had been committed.
On Thermidor 10, about five in the evening, he ascended the death-cart,
placed between Henriot and Couthon, mutilated like himself. His head was
enveloped in linen, saturated with blood; his face was livid, his eyes
were almost visionless. An immense crowd thronged round the cart,
manifesting the most boisterous and exulting joy. He ascended the
scaffold last. When his head fell, shouts of applause arose in the air,
and lasted for some minutes.
Thermidor 9 was the first day of the revolution it which those fell who
attacked. This indication alone manifested that the ascendant
revolutionary movement had reached its term. From that day the contrary
movement necessarily began.
From Thermidor 9, 1794, to the summer of 1795, the radical Mountain, in
its turn, underwent the destiny it had imposed on others--for in times
when the passions are called into play parties know not how to come to
terms, and seek only to conquer. From that period the middle class
resumed the management of the revolution, and the experiment of pure
democracy had failed.
* * * * *
THOMAS CARLYLE
History of the French Revolution
Carlyle's "History of the French Revolution" appeared in 1837,
some three years after the author had established himself in
London. Never has the individuality of a historian so
completely permeated his work; it is inconceivable that any
other man should have written a single paragraph, almost a
single sentence, of the history. To Carlyle, the story
presents itself as an upheaval of elemental forces, vast
elemental personalities storming titanically in their midst,
vividly picturesque as a primeval mountain landscape illumined
by the blaze of lightning, in a night of storms, with
momentary glimpses of moon and stars. Although it was
impossible for Carlyle to assimilate all the wealth of
material even then extant, the "History," considered as a
prose epic, has a permanent and unique value. His convictions,
whatever their worth, came, as he himself put it, "flamingly
from the heart." (Carlyle, biography: see vol. ix.)
_I.---The End of an Era_
On May 10, 1774, "with a sound absolutely like thunder," has the
horologe of time struck, and an old era passed away. Is it the healthy
peace or the ominous unhealthy, that rests on France for the next ten
years? Dubarrydom and its D'Aiguillons are gone for ever. There is a
young, still docile, well-intentioned king; a young, beautiful and
bountiful, well-intentioned queen; and with them all France, as it were,
become young. For controller-general, a virtuous, philosophic Turgot.
Philosophism sits joyful in her glittering salons; "the age of
revolutions approaches" (as Jean Jacques wrote), but then of happy,
blessed ones.
But with the working people it is not so well, whom we lump together
into a kind of dim, compendious unity, monstrous but dim, far off, as
the _canaille_. Singular how long the rotten will hold together,
provided you do not handle it roughly. Visible in France is no such
thing as a government. But beyond the Atlantic democracy is born; a
sympathetic France rejoices over the rights of man. Rochambeaus,
Lameths, Lafayettes have drawn their swords in this sacred quarrel;
return, to be the missionaries of freedom. But, what to do with the
finances, having no Fortunatus purse?
For there is the palpablest discrepancy between revenue and expenditure.
Are we breaking down, then, into the horrors of national bankruptcy?
Turgot, Necker, and others have failed. What apparition, then, could be
welcomer than that of M. de Calonne? A man of indisputable genius, even
fiscal genius, more or less; of intrinsically rich qualities! For all
straits he has present remedy. Calonne also shall have trial! With a
genius for persuading--before all things for borrowing; after three
years of which, expedient heaped on expedient, the pile topples
perilous.
Whereupon a new expedient once more astonishes the world, unheard of
these hundred and sixty years--_Convocation of the Notables_. A round
gross of notables, meeting in February, 1787; all privileged persons. A
deficit so enormous! Mismanagement, profusion, is too clear; peculation
itself is hinted at. Calonne flies, storm-driven, over the horizon. To
whom succeeds Loménie-Brienne, Archbishop of Toulouse--adopting
Calonne's plans, as Calonne had proposed to adopt Turgot's; and the
notables are, as it were, organed out in kind of choral anthem of
thanks, praises, promises.
Loménie issues conciliatory edicts, fiscal edicts. But if the Parlement
of Paris refuse to register them? As it does, entering complaints
instead. Loménie launches his thunderbolt, six score _lettres de
cachet;_ the Parlement is trundled off to Troyes, in Champagne, for a
month. Yet two months later, when a royal session is held, to have
edicts registered, there is no registering. Orleans, "Equality" that is
to be, has made the protest, and cut its moorings.
The provincial parlements, moreover, back up the Paris Parlement with
its demand for a States-General. Loménie hatches a cockatrice egg; but
it is broken in premature manner; the plot discovered and denounced.
Nevertheless, the Parlement is dispersed by D'Agoust with Gardes
Françaises and Gardes Suisses. Still, however, will none of the
provincial parlements register.
Deputations coming from Brittany meet to take counsel, being refused
audience; become the _Breton Club_, first germ of the _Jacobins'
Society_. Loménie at last announces that the States-General shall meet
in the May of next year (1789). For the holding of which, since there is
no known plan, "thinkers are invited" to furnish one.
_II.---The States-General_
Wherewith Loménie departs; flimsier mortal was seldom fated to do as
weighty a mischief. The archbishop is thrown out, and M. Necker is
recalled. States-General will meet, if not in January, at least in May.
But how to form it? On the model of the last States-General in 1614,
says the Parlement, which means that the _Tiers Etat_ will be of no
account, if the noblesse and the clergy agree. Wherewith terminates the
popularity of the Parlement. As for the "thinkers," it is a sheer
snowing of pamphlets. And Abbé Sieyès has come to Paris to ask three
questions, and answer them: _What is the Third Estate? All. What has it
hitherto been in our form of government? Nothing. What does it want? To
become something_.
The grand questions are: Shall the States-General sit and vote in three
separate bodies, or in one body, wherein the _Tiers Etat_ shall have
double representation? The notables are again summoned to decide, but
vanish without decision. With those questions still unsettled, the
election begins. And presently the national deputies are in Paris. Also
there is a sputter; drudgery and rascality rising in Saint-Antoine,
finally repressed by Gardes Suisses and grapeshot.
On Monday, May 4, is the baptism day of democracy, the extreme unction
day of feudalism. Behold the procession of processions advancing towards
Notre--our commons, noblesse, clergy, the king himself. Which of these
six hundred individuals in plain white cravat might one guess would
become their king? He with the thick black locks, shaggy beetle-brows
and rough-hewn face? Gabriel Honoré Riqueti de Mirabeau, the
world-compeller, the type Frenchman of this epoch, as Voltaire of the
last. And if Mirabeau is the greatest, who of these six hundred may be
the meanest? Shall we say that anxious, slight, ineffectual-looking man,
under thirty, in spectacles; complexion of an atrabiliar shade of pale
sea-green, whose name is Maximilien Robespierre?
Coming into their hall on the morrow, the commons deputies perceive that
they have it to themselves. The noblesse and the clergy are sitting
separately, which the noblesse maintain to be right; no agreement is
possible. After six weeks of inertia the commons deputies, on their own
strength, are getting under way; declare themselves not _Third Estate_,
but _National Assembly_. On June 20, shut out of their hall "for
repairs," the deputies find refuge in the tennis court! take solemn oath
that they will continue to meet till they have made the constitution.
And to these are joined 149 of the clergy. A royal session is held; the
king propounds thirty-five articles, which if the estates do not confirm
he will himself enforce. The commons remain immovable, joined now by the
rest of the clergy and forty-eight noblesse. So triumphs the Third
Estate.
War-god Broglie is at work, but grapeshot is good on one condition! The
Gardes Françaises, it seems, will not fire; nor they only. Other troops,
then? Rumour declares, and is verified, that Necker, people's minister,
is dismissed. "To arms!" cries Camille Desmoulins, and innumerable
voices yell responsive. Chaos comes. The Electoral Club, however,
declares itself a provisional municipality, sends out parties to keep
order in the streets that night, enroll a militia, with arms collected
where one may. Better to name it _National Guard_! And while the crisis
is going on, Mirabeau is away, sad at heart for the dying, crabbed old
father whom he loved.
Muskets are to be got from the Invalides; 28,000 National Guards are
provided with matchlocks. And now to the Bastile! But to describe this
siege perhaps transcends the talent of mortals. After four hours of
world-bedlam, it surrenders. The Bastile is down. "Why," said poor
Louis, "that is a revolt." "Sire," answered Liancourt, "it is not a
revolt; it is a revolution."
On the morrow, Louis paternally announces to the National Assembly
reconciliation. Amid enthusiasm, President Bailly is proclaimed Maire of
Paris, Lafayette general of the National Guard. And the first emigration
of aristocrat irreconcilables takes place. The revolution is sanctioned.
Nevertheless, see Saint-Antoine, not to be curbed, dragging old Foulon
and Berthier to the lantern, after which the cloud disappears, as
thunder-clouds do.
_III.---Menads and Feast of Pikes_
French Revolution means here the open, violent rebellion and victory of
disemprisoned anarchy against corrupt, worn-out authority; till the
frenzy working itself out, the uncontrollable be got harnessed. A
transcendental phenomenon, overstepping all rules and experience, the
crowning phenomenon of our modern time.
The National Assembly takes the name Constituent; with endless debating,
gets the rights of man written down and promulgated. A memorable night
is August 4, when they abolish privilege, immunity, feudalism, root and
branch, perfecting their theory of irregular verbs. Meanwhile,
seventy-two châteaus have flamed aloft in the Maçonnais and Beaujolais
alone. Ill stands it now with some of the seigneurs. And, glorious as
the meridian, M. Necker is returning from Bâle.
Pamphleteering, moreover, opens its abysmal throat wider and wider,
never to close more. A Fourth Estate of able editors springs up,
increases and multiplies, irrepressible, incalculable.
No, this revolution is not of the consolidating kind. Lafayette
maintains order by his patrols; we hear of white cockades, and, worse
still, black cockades; and grain grows still more scarce. One Monday
morning, maternity awakes to hear children weeping for bread, must forth
into the streets. _Allons_! Let us assemble! To the Hôtel de Ville, to
Versailles, to the lantern! All women gather and go; crowds storm all
stairs, force out all women; there is a universal "press of women." Who
will storm the Hôtel de Ville, but for shifty usher Maillard, who
snatches a drum, beats his Rogues' March to Versailles! And after them
the National Guard, resolute in spite of _Mon Général,_ who, indeed,
must go with them--Saint-Antoine having already gone. Maillard and his
menads demand at Versailles bread; speech with the king for a
deputation. The king speaks words of comfort. Words? But they want
"bread, not so much discoursing!"
Towards midnight comes Lafayette; seems to have saved the situation;
gets to bed about five in the morning. But rascaldom, gathering about
the château, breaks in. One of the royal bodyguard fires, whereupon the
deluge pours in, would deal utter destruction but for the coming of the
National Guard. The bodyguard mount the tri-colour. There is no choice
now. The king must from Versailles to Paris, in strange procession;
finally reaches the long-deserted Palace of the Tuileries. It is
Tuesday, October 6, 1789.
And so again, on clear arena under new conditions, with something even
of a new stateliness, we begin a new course of action. Peace of a father
restored to his children? Not only shall Paris be fed, but the king's
hand be seen in that work--_King Louis, restorer of French liberty!_
Alone of men, Mirabeau may begin to discern clearly whither all this is
tending. Patriotism, accordingly, regrets that his zeal seems to be
getting cool. A man stout of heart, enigmatic, difficult to unmask!
Meanwhile, finances give trouble enough. To appease the deficit we
venture on a hazardous step, sale of the clergy's lands; a paper-money
of _assignats_, bonds secured on that property is decreed; and young
Sansculottism thrives bravely, growing by hunger. Great and greater
waxes President Danton in his Cordeliers section. This man also, like
Mirabeau, has a natural _eye_.
And with the whole world forming itself into clubs, there is one club
growing ever stronger, till it becomes immeasurably strong; which,
having leased for itself the hall of the Jacobins' Convent, shall, under
the title of the Jacobins' Club, become memorable to all times and
lands; has become the mother society, with 300 shrill-tongued daughters
in direct correspondence with her, has also already thrown off the
mother club of the Cordeliers and the monarchist Feuillans.
In the midst of which a hopeful France on a sudden renews with
enthusiasm the national oath; of loyalty to the king, the law, the
constitution which the National Assembly shall make; in Paris, repeated
in every town and district of France! Freedom by social contract; such
was verily the gospel of that era.
From which springs a new idea: "Why all France has not one federation
and universal oath of brotherhood once for all?" other places than Paris
having first set example or federation. The place for it, Paris; the
scene to be worthy of it. Fifteen thousand men are at work on the Champs
de Mars, hollowing it out into a national amphitheatre. One may hope it
will be annual and perennial; a feast of pikes, notable among the high
tides of the year!
Workmen being lazy, all Paris turns out to complete the preparations,
her daughters with the rest. From all points of the compass federates
are arriving. On July 13, 1790, 200,000 patriotic men and 100,000
patriotic women sit waiting in the Champs de Mars. The generalissimo
swears in the name of armed France; the National Assembly swears; the
king swears; be the welkin split with vivats! And the feast of pikes
dances itself off and becomes defunct.
_IV.--The End of Mirabeau_
Of journals there are now some 133; among which, Marat, the People's
Friend, unseen, croaks harsh thunder. Clubbism thrives and spreads, the
Mother of Patriotism, sitting in the Jacobins, shining supreme over all.
The pure patriots now, sitting on the extreme tip of the left, count
only some thirty, Mirabeau not among the chosen; a virtuous Pétion; an
incorruptible Robespierre; conspicuous, if seldom audible, Philippe
d'Orleans; and Barnave triumvirate.
The plan of royalty, if it have any, is that of flying over the
frontiers; does not abandon the plan, yet never executes it.
Nevertheless, Mirabeau and the Queen of France have met, have parted
with mutual trust. It is strange, secret as the mysterious, but
indisputable. "Madame," he has said, "the monarchy is saved."
Possible--if Fate intervene not. Patriotism suspects the design of
flight; barking this time not at nothing. Suspects also the repairing of
the castle of Vincennes; General Lafayette has to wrestle persuasively
with Saint-Antoine.
On one royal person only can Mirabeau place dependence--the queen. Had
Mirabeau lived one other year! But man's years are numbered, and the
tale of Mirabeau's is complete. The giant oaken strength of him is
wasted; excess of effort, of excitement of all kinds; labour incessant,
almost beyond credibility. "When I am gone," he has said, "the miseries
I have held back will burst from all sides upon France." On April 2 he
feels that the last of the days has risen for him. His death is Titanic,
as his life has been. On the third evening is solemn public funeral. The
chosen man of France is gone.
The French monarchy now is, in all human probability, lost. Many things
invite to flight; but if the king fly, will there not be aristocrat
Austrian invasion, butchery, replacement of feudalism, wars more than
civil? The king desires to go to St. Cloud, but shall not; patriots will
not let the horses go. But Count Fersen, an alert young Swedish soldier,
has business on hand; has a new coach built, of the kind called Berline;
has made other purchases. On the night of Monday, June 20, certain royal
individuals are in a glass coach; Fersen is the coachman; out by the
Barrier de Clichy, till we find the waiting Berline; then to Bondy,
where is a chaise ready; and deft Fersen bids adieu.
With morning, and discovery, National Assembly adopts an attitude of
sublime calm; Paris also; yet messages are flying. Moreover, at Sainte
Menehould, on the route of the Berline, suspicious patriots are
wondering what certain lounging dragoons mean; while the Berline arrives
not. At last it comes; but Drouet, village postmaster, seeks a likeness;
takes horse in swift pursuit. So rolls on the Berline, and the chase
after it; till it comes to a dead stop in Varennes, where Drouet finds
it--in time to stop departure. Louis, the poor, phlegmatic man, steps
out; all step out. The flight is ended, though not the spurring and
riding of that night of spurs.
_V.---Constitution Will Not March_
In the last nights of September, Paris is dancing and flinging
fireworks; the edifice of the constitution is completed, solemnly
proffered to his majesty, solemnly accepted by him, to the sound of
cannon salvoes. There is to be a new Legislative Assembly, biennial; no
members of the Constituent Assembly to sit therein, or for four years to
be a minister, or hold a court appointment. So they vanish.
Among this new legislative see Condorcet, Brissot; most notable, Carnot.
An effervescent, well intentioned set of senators; too combustible where
continual sparks are flying, ordered to make the constitution march for
which marching three things bode ill--the French people, the French
king, the French noblesse and the European world.
For there are troubles in cities of the south. Avignon, where Jourdan
_coupe-tête_ makes lurid appearance; Perpignan, northern Caen also. With
factions, suspicions, want of bread and sugar, it is verily what they
call _déchiré,_ torn asunder, this poor country. And away over seas the
Plain of Cap Français one huge whirl of smoke and flame; one cause of
the dearth of sugar. What King Louis is and cannot help being, we
already know.
And, thirdly, there is the European world. All kings and kinglets are
astir, their brows clouded with menace. Swedish Gustav will lead
coalised armies, Austria and Prussia speak at Pilnitz, lean Pitt looks
out suspicious. Europe is in travail, the birth will be WAR. Worst
feature of all, the emigrants at Coblentz, an extra-national Versailles.
We shall have war, then!
Our revenue is assignats, our army wrecked disobedient, disorganised;
what, then, shall we do? Dumouriez is summoned to Paris, quick, shifty,
insuppressible; while royalist seigneurs cajole, and, as you turn your
legislative thumbscrew, king's veto steps in with magical paralysis. Yet
let not patriotism despair. Have we not a virtuous Pétion, Mayor of
Paris, a wholly patriotic municipality? Patriotism, moreover, has her
constitution that can march, the mother-society of the Jacobins; where
may be heard Brissot, Danton, Robespierre, the long-winded,
incorruptible man.
Hope bursts forth with appointment of a patriot ministry, this also his
majesty will try. Roland, perchance Wife Roland, Dumouriez, and others.
Liberty is never named with another word, Equality. In April poor Louis,
"with tears in his eyes," proposes that the assembly do now decree war.
Let our three generals on the frontier look to it therefore, since Duke
Brunswick has his drill-sergeants busy. We decree a camp of twenty
thousand National Volunteers; the hereditary representative answers
_veto_! Strict Roland, the whole Patriot ministry, finds itself turned
out.
Barbaroux writes to Marseilles for six hundred men who know how to die.
On June 20 a tree of Liberty appears in Saint-Antoine--a procession with
for standard a pair of black breeches---pours down surging upon the
Tuileries, breaks in. The king, the little prince royal, have to don the
cap of liberty. Thus has the age of Chivalry gone, and that of Hunger
come. On the surface only is some slight reaction of sympathy, mistrust
is too strong.
Now from Marseilles are marching the six hundred men who know how to
die, marching to the hymn of the Marseillaise. The country is in danger!
Volunteer fighters gather. Duke Brunswick shakes himself, and issues his
manifesto; and in Paris preternatural suspicion and disquietude. Demand
is for forfeiture, abdication in favour of prince royal, which
Legislature cannot pronounce. Therefore on the night of August 9 the
tocsin sounds; of Insurrection.
On August 18 the grim host is marching, immeasurable, born of the night.
Of the squadrons of order, not one stirs. At the Tuileries the red Swiss
look to their priming. Amid a double rank of National Guards the royal
family "marches" to the assembly. The Swiss stand to their post,
peaceable yet immovable. Three Marseillaise cannon are fired; then the
Swiss also fire. One strangest patriot onlooker thinks that the Swiss,
had they a commander, would beat; the name of him, Napoleon Bonaparte.
Having none----Honour to you, brave men, not martyrs, and yet almost
more. Your work was to die, and ye did it.
Our old patriot ministry is recalled; Roland; Danton Minister of
Justice! Also, in the new municipality, Robespierre is sitting. Louis
and his household are lodged in the Temple. The constitution is over!
Lafayette, whom his soldiers will not follow, rides over the border to
an Austrian prison. Dumouriez is commander-in-chief.
_VI.--Regicide_
In this month of September 1792 whatsoever is cruel in the panic frenzy
of twenty-five million men, whatsoever is great in the simultaneous
death-defiance of twenty-five million men, stand here in abrupt
contrast; all of black on one side, all of bright on the other. France
crowding to the frontiers to defend itself from foreign despots, to town
halls to defend itself from aristocrats, an insurrectionary improvised
Commune of Paris actual sovereign of France.