The articulate heroine has her reward of appreciation and her dues of
praise; it is her appropriate fortune to have it definitely measured, and
generally on equal terms. She takes pains to explain herself, and is
understood, and pitied, when need is, on the right occasions. For
instance, Madame Roland, a woman of merit, who knew her "merit's name and
place," addressed her memoirs, her studies in contemporary history, her
autobiography, her many speeches, and her last phrase at the foot of the
undaunting scaffold, to a great audience of her equals (more or less)
then living and to live in the ages then to come--her equals and those
she raises to her own level, as the heroic example has authority to do.
Another woman--the Queen--suffered at that time, and suffered without the
command of language, the exactitude of phrase, the precision of
judgement, the proffer of prophecy, the explicit sense of Innocence and
Moderation oppressed in her person. These were Madame Roland's; but the
other woman, without eloquence, without literature, and without any
judicial sense of history, addresses no mere congregation of readers.
Marie Antoinette's unrecorded pangs pass into the treasuries of the
experience of the whole human family. All that are human have some part
there; genius itself may lean in contemplation over that abyss of woe;
the great poets themselves may look into its distances and solitudes.
Compassion here has no measure and no language. Madame Roland speaks
neither to genius nor to complete simplicity; Marie Antoinette holds her
peace in the presence of each, dumb in her presence.
Madame Roland had no dumbness of the spirit, as history, prompted by her
own musical voice, presents her to a world well prepared to do her
justice. Of that justice she had full expectation; justice here, justice
in the world--the world that even when universal philosophy should reign
would be inevitably the world of mediocrity; justice that would come of
enlightened views; justice that would be the lesson learnt by the nations
widely educated up to some point generally accessible; justice well
within earthly sight and competence. This confidence was also her
reward. For what justice did the Queen look? Here it is the "abyss that
appeals to the abyss."
Twice only in the life of Madame Roland is there a lapse into silence,
and for the record of these two poor failures of that long, indomitable,
reasonable, temperate, explicit utterance which expressed her life and
mind we are debtors to her friends. She herself has not confessed them.
Nowhere else, whether in her candid history of herself, or in her wise
history of her country, or in her judicial history of her contemporaries,
whose spirit she discerned, whose powers she appraised, whose errors she
foresaw; hardly in her thought, and never in her word, is a break to be
perceived; she is not silent and she hardly stammers; and when she tells
us of her tears--the tears of youth only--her record is voluble and all
complete. For the dignity of her style, of her force, and of her
balanced character, Madame Roland would doubtless have effaced the two
imperfections which, to us who would be glad to admire in silence her
heroic figure, if that heroic figure would but cease to talk, are finer
and more noble than her well-placed language and the high successes of
her decision and her endurance. More than this, the two failures of this
unfailing woman are two little doors opened suddenly into those wider
spaces and into that dominion of solitude which, after all, do doubtless
exist even in the most garrulous soul. By these two outlets Manon Roland
also reaches the region of Marie Antoinette. But they befell her at the
close of her life, and they shall be named at the end of this brief
study.
Madame Roland may seem the more heroic to those whose suffrages she seeks
in all times and nations because of the fact that she manifestly
suppresses in her self-descriptions any signs of a natural gaiety. Her
memoirs give evidence of no such thing; it is only in her letters, not
intended for the world, that we are aware of the inadvertence of moments.
We may overhear a laugh at times, but not in those consciously sprightly
hours that she spent with her convent-school friend gathering fruit and
counting eggs at the farm. She pursued these country tasks not without
offering herself the cultivated congratulation of one whom cities had
failed to allure, and who bore in mind the examples of Antiquity. She
did not forget the death of Socrates. Or, rather, she finds an occasion
to reproach herself with having once forgotten it, and with having
omitted what another might have considered the tedious recollection of
the condemnation of Phocion. She never wearied of these examples. But
it is her inexhaustible freshness in these things that has helped other
writers of her time to weary us.
In her manner of telling her story there is an absence of all
exaggeration, which gives the reader a constant sense of security. That
virtue of style and thought was one she proposed to herself and attained
with exact consciousness of success. It would be almost enough (in the
perfection of her practice) to make a great writer; even a measure of it
goes far to make a fair one. Her moderation of statement is never
shaken; and if she now and then glances aside from her direct narrative
road to hazard a conjecture, the error she may make is on the generous
side of hope and faith. For instance, she is too sure that her Friends
(so she always calls the _Girondins_, using no nicknames) are safe,
whereas they were then all doomed; a young man who had carried a harmless
message for her--a mere notification to her family of her arrest--receives
her cheerful commendation for his good feeling; from a note we learn that
for this action he suffered on the scaffold and that his father soon
thereafter died of grief. But Madame Roland never matched such a
delirious event as this by any delirium of her own imagination. The
delirium was in things and in the acts of men; her mind was never hurried
from its sane self-possession, when the facts raved.
It was only when she used the rhetoric ready to her hand that she stooped
to verbal violence; _et encore_! References to the banishment of
Aristides and the hemlock of Socrates had become toy daggers and bending
swords in the hands of her compatriots, and she is hardly to be accused
of violence in brandishing those weapons. Sometimes, refuse rhetoric
being all too ready, she takes it on her pen, in honest haste, as though
it were honest speech, and stands committed to such a phrase as this:
"The dregs of the nation placed such a one at the helm of affairs."
But her manner was not generally to write anything but a clear and
efficient French language. She never wrote for the love of art, but
without some measure of art she did not write; and her simplicity is
somewhat altered by that importunate love of the Antique. In "Bleak
House" there is an old lady who insisted that the name "Mr. Turveydrop,"
as it appeared polished on the door-plate of the dancing master, was the
name of the pretentious father and not of the industrious son--albeit,
needless to say, one name was common to them. With equal severity I aver
that when Madame Roland wrote to her husband in the second person
singular she was using the _tu_ of Rome and not the _tu_ of Paris. French
was indeed the language; but had it been French in spirit she would (in
spite of the growing Republican fashion) have said _vous_ to this "homme
eclaire, de moeurs pures, a qui l'on ne peut reprocher que sa grande
admiration pour les anciens aux depens des modernes qu'il meprise, et le
faible de trop aimer a parler de lui." There was no French _tu_ in her
relations with this husband, gravely esteemed and appraised, discreetly
rebuked, the best passages of whose Ministerial reports she wrote, and
whom she observed as he slowly began to think he himself had composed
them. She loved him with a loyal, obedient, and discriminating
affection, and when she had been put to death, he, still at liberty, fell
upon his sword.
This last letter was written at a moment when, in order to prevent the
exposure of a public death, Madame Roland had intended to take opium in
the end of her cruel imprisonment. A little later she chose that those
who oppressed her country should have their way with her to the last.
But, while still intending self-destruction, she had written to her
husband: "Forgive me, respectable man, for disposing of a life that I had
consecrated to thee." In quoting this I mean to make no too-easy effect
with the word "respectable," grown grotesque by the tedious gibe of our
own present fashion of speech.
Madame Roland, I have said, was twice inarticulate; she had two spaces of
silence, one when she, pure and selfless patriot, had heard her
condemnation to death. Passing out of the court she beckoned to her
friends, and signified to them her sentence "by a gesture." And again
there was a pause, in the course of her last days, during which her
speeches had not been few, and had been spoken with her beautiful voice
unmarred; "she leant," says Riouffe, "alone against her window, and wept
there three hours."