Chapter 3: 3.iii

Growing Shrill.

On the whole, one cannot say that the Girondins are wanting to
themselves, so far as good-will might go. They prick assiduously
into the sore-places of the Mountain; from principle, and also
from jesuitism.

Besides September, of which there is now little to be made except
effervescence, we discern two sore-places where the Mountain
often suffers: Marat and Orléans Egalité. Squalid Marat, for his
own sake and for the Mountain’s, is assaulted ever and anon; held
up to France, as a squalid bloodthirsty Portent, inciting to the
pillage of shops; of whom let the Mountain have the credit! The
Mountain murmurs, ill at ease: this “Maximum of Patriotism,” how
shall they either own him or disown him? As for Marat personally,
he, with his fixed-idea, remains invulnerable to such things: nay
the People’s-friend is very evidently rising in importance, as
his befriended People rises. No shrieks now, when he goes to
speak; occasional applauses rather, furtherance which breeds
confidence. The day when the Girondins proposed to “decree him
accused” (_décréter d’accusation_, as they phrase it) for that
February Paragraph, of “hanging up a Forestaller or two at the
door-lintels,” Marat proposes to have _them_ “decreed insane;”
and, descending the Tribune-steps, is heard to articulate these
most unsenatorial ejaculations: ‘_Les Cochons, les imbecilles_,
Pigs, idiots!’ Oftentimes he croaks harsh sarcasm, having really
a rough rasping tongue, and a very deep fund of contempt for fine
outsides; and once or twice, he even laughs, nay “explodes into
laughter, _rit aux éclats_,” at the gentilities and superfine
airs of these Girondin ‘men of statesmanship,’ with their
pedantries, plausibilities, pusillanimities: ‘these two years,’
says he, ‘you have been whining about attacks, and plots, and
danger from Paris; and you have not a scratch to shew for
yourselves.’[617]—Danton gruffly rebukes him, from time to time:
a Maximum of Patriotism, whom one can neither own nor disown!

But the second sore-place of the Mountain is this anomalous
Monseigneur Equality Prince d’Orléans. Behold these men, says the
Gironde; with a whilom Bourbon Prince among them: they are
creatures of the D’Orléans Faction; they will have Philippe made
King; one King no sooner guillotined than another made in his
stead! Girondins have moved, Buzot moved long ago, from principle
and also from jesuitism, that the whole race of Bourbons should
be marched forth from the soil of France; this Prince Egalité to
bring up the rear. Motions which might produce some effect on the
public;—which the Mountain, ill at ease, knows not what to do
with.

And poor Orléans Egalité himself, for one begins to pity even
him, what does he do with them? The disowned of all parties, the
rejected and foolishly be-drifted hither and hither, to what
corner of Nature can he now drift with advantage? Feasible hope
remains not for him: unfeasible hope, in pallid doubtful
glimmers, there may still come, bewildering, not cheering or
illuminating,—from the Dumouriez quarter; and how, if not the
timewasted Orléans Egalité, then perhaps the young unworn
Chartres Egalité might rise to be a kind of King? Sheltered, if
shelter it be, in the clefts of the Mountain, poor Egalité will
wait: one refuge in Jacobinism, one in Dumouriez and
Counter-Revolution, are there not two chances? However, the look
of him, Dame Genlis says, is grown gloomy; sad to see. Sillery
also, the Genlis’s Husband, who hovers about the Mountain, not on
it, is in a bad way. Dame Genlis has come to Raincy, out of
England and Bury St. Edmunds, in these days; being summoned by
Egalité, with her young charge, Mademoiselle Egalité, that so
Mademoiselle might not be counted among Emigrants and hardly
dealt with. But it proves a ravelled business: Genlis and charge
find that they must retire to the Netherlands; must wait on the
Frontiers for a week or two; till Monseigneur, by Jacobin help,
get it wound up. “Next morning,” says Dame Genlis, “Monseigneur,
gloomier than ever, gave me his arm, to lead me to the carriage.
I was greatly troubled; Mademoiselle burst into tears; her Father
was pale and trembling. After I had got seated, he stood
immovable at the carriage-door, with his eyes fixed on me; his
mournful and painful look seemed to implore pity;—‘_Adieu,
Madame!_’ said he. The altered sound of his voice completely
overcame me; not able to utter a word, I held out my hand; he
grasped it close; then turning, and advancing sharply towards the
postillions, he gave them a sign, and we rolled away.”[618]

Nor are Peace-makers wanting; of whom likewise we mention two;
one fast on the crown of the Mountain, the other not yet alighted
anywhere: Danton and Barrère. Ingenious Barrère, Old-Constituent
and Editor from the slopes of the Pyrenees, is one of the
usefullest men of this Convention, in his way. Truth may lie on
both sides, on either side, or on neither side; my friends, ye
must give and take: for the rest, success to the winning side!
This is the motto of Barrère. Ingenious, almost genial;
quick-sighted, supple, graceful; a man that will prosper.
Scarcely Belial in the assembled Pandemonium was plausibler to
ear and eye. An indispensable man: in the great _Art of Varnish_
he may be said to seek his fellow. Has there an explosion arisen,
as many do arise, a confusion, unsightliness, which no tongue can
speak of, nor eye look on; give it to Barrère; Barrère shall be
Committee-Reporter of it; you shall see it transmute itself into
a regularity, into the very beauty and improvement that was
needed. Without one such man, we say, how were this Convention
bested? Call him not, as exaggerative Mercier does, “the greatest
liar in France:” nay it may be argued there is not truth enough
in him to make a real lie of. Call him, with Burke, Anacreon of
the Guillotine, and a man serviceable to this Convention.

The other Peace-maker whom we name is Danton. Peace, O peace with
one another! cries Danton often enough: Are we not alone against
the world; a little band of brothers? Broad Danton is loved by
all the Mountain; but they think him too easy-tempered, deficient
in suspicion: he has stood between Dumouriez and much censure,
anxious not to exasperate our only General: in the shrill tumult
Danton’s strong voice reverberates, for union and pacification.
Meetings there are; dinings with the Girondins: it is so
pressingly essential that there be union. But the Girondins are
haughty and respectable; this Titan Danton is not a man of
Formulas, and there rests on him a shadow of September. ‘Your
Girondins have no confidence in me:’ this is the answer a
conciliatory Meillan gets from him; to all the arguments and
pleadings this conciliatory Meillan can bring, the repeated
answer is, ‘_Ils n’ont point de confiance_.’[619]—The tumult will
get ever shriller; rage is growing pale.

In fact, what a pang is it to the heart of a Girondin, this first
withering probability that the despicable unphilosophic anarchic
Mountain, after all, may triumph! Brutal Septemberers, a
fifth-floor Tallien, “a Robespierre without an idea in his head,”
as Condorcet says, “or a feeling in his heart:” and yet we, the
flower of France, cannot stand against them; behold the sceptre
departs from us; from us and goes to them! Eloquence,
Philosophism, Respectability avail not: “against Stupidity the
very gods fight to no purpose,

“Mit der Dummheit kämpfen Götter selbst vergebens!”

Shrill are the plaints of Louvet; his thin existence all
acidified into rage, and preternatural insight of suspicion.
Wroth is young Barbaroux; wroth and scornful. Silent, like a
Queen with the aspic on her bosom, sits the wife of Roland;
Roland’s Accounts never yet got audited, his name become a
byword. Such is the fortune of war, especially of revolution. The
great gulf of Tophet, and Tenth of August, opened itself at the
magic of your eloquent voice; and lo now, it will not close at
your voice! It is a dangerous thing such magic. The Magician’s
Famulus got hold of the forbidden Book, and summoned a goblin:
_Plait-il_, What is your will? said the Goblin. The Famulus,
somewhat struck, bade him fetch water: the swift goblin fetched
it, pail in each hand; but lo, would not cease fetching it!
Desperate, the Famulus shrieks at him, smites at him, cuts him in
two; lo, _two_ goblin water-carriers ply; and the house will be
swum away in Deucalion Deluges.