Chapter 1: 5.I

Inertia.

That exasperated France, in this same National Assembly of hers,
has got something, nay something great, momentous, indispensable,
cannot be doubted; yet still the question were: Specially _what?_
A question hard to solve, even for calm onlookers at this
distance; wholly insoluble to actors in the middle of it. The
States-General, created and conflated by the passionate effort of
the whole nation, is there as a thing high and lifted up. Hope,
jubilating, cries aloud that it will prove a miraculous Brazen
Serpent in the Wilderness; whereon whosoever looks, with faith
and obedience, shall be healed of all woes and serpent-bites.

We may answer, it will at least prove a symbolic Banner; round
which the exasperating complaining Twenty-Five Millions,
otherwise isolated and without power, may rally, and work—what it
is in them to work. If battle must be the work, as one cannot
help expecting, then shall it be a battle-banner (say, an Italian
Gonfalon, in its old Republican _Carroccio_); and shall tower up,
car-borne, shining in the wind: and with iron tongue peal forth
many a signal. A thing of prime necessity; which whether in the
van or in the centre, whether leading or led and driven, must do
the fighting multitude incalculable services. For a season, while
it floats in the very front, nay as it were stands solitary
there, waiting whether force will gather round it, this same
National _Carroccio_, and the signal-peals it rings, are a main
object with us.

The omen of the “slouch-hats clapt on” shows the Commons Deputies
to have made up their minds on one thing: that neither Noblesse
nor Clergy shall have precedence of them; hardly even Majesty
itself. To such length has the _Contrat Social_, and force of
public opinion, carried us. For what is Majesty but the Delegate
of the Nation; delegated, and bargained with (even rather
tightly),—in some very singular posture of affairs, which Jean
Jacques has not fixed the date of?

Coming therefore into their Hall, on the morrow, an inorganic
mass of Six Hundred individuals, these Commons Deputies perceive,
without terror, that they have it all to themselves. Their Hall
is also the Grand or general Hall for all the Three Orders. But
the Noblesse and Clergy, it would seem, have retired to their two
separate Apartments, or Halls; and are there “verifying their
powers,” not in a conjoint but in a separate capacity. They are
to constitute two separate, perhaps separately-voting Orders,
then? It is as if both Noblesse and Clergy had silently taken for
granted that they already were such! Two Orders against one; and
so the Third Order to be left in a perpetual minority?

Much may remain unfixed; but the negative of that is a thing
fixed: in the Slouch-hatted heads, in the French Nation’s head.
Double representation, and all else hitherto gained, were
otherwise futile, null. Doubtless, the “powers must be
verified;”—doubtless, the Commission, the electoral Documents of
your Deputy must be inspected by his brother Deputies, and found
valid: it is the preliminary of all. Neither is this question, of
doing it separately or doing it conjointly, a vital one: but if
it lead to such? It must be resisted; wise was that maxim, Resist
the beginnings! Nay were resistance unadvisable, even dangerous,
yet surely pause is very natural: pause, with Twenty-five
Millions behind you, may become resistance enough.—The inorganic
mass of Commons Deputies will restrict itself to a “system of
inertia,” and for the present remain inorganic.

Such method, recommendable alike to sagacity and to timidity, do
the Commons Deputies adopt; and, not without adroitness, and with
ever more tenacity, they persist in it, day after day, week after
week. For six weeks their history is of the kind named barren;
which indeed, as Philosophy knows, is often the fruitfulest of
all. These were their still creation-days; wherein they sat
incubating! In fact, what they did was to do nothing, in a
judicious manner. Daily the inorganic body reassembles; regrets
that they cannot get organisation, “verification of powers in
common, and begin regenerating France. Headlong motions may be
made, but let such be repressed; inertia alone is at once
unpunishable and unconquerable.

Cunning must be met by cunning; proud pretension by inertia, by a
low tone of patriotic sorrow; low, but incurable, unalterable.
Wise as serpents; harmless as doves: what a spectacle for France!
Six Hundred inorganic individuals, essential for its regeneration
and salvation, sit there, on their elliptic benches, longing
passionately towards life; in painful durance; like souls waiting
to be born. Speeches are spoken; eloquent; audible within doors
and without. Mind agitates itself against mind; the Nation looks
on with ever deeper interest. Thus do the Commons Deputies sit
incubating.

There are private conclaves, supper-parties, consultations;
Breton Club, Club of Viroflay; germs of many Clubs. Wholly an
element of confused noise, dimness, angry heat;—wherein, however,
the Eros-egg, kept at the fit temperature, may hover safe,
unbroken till it be hatched. In your Mouniers, Malouets,
Lechapeliers in science sufficient for that; fervour in your
Barnaves, Rabauts. At times shall come an inspiration from royal
Mirabeau: he is nowise yet recognised as royal; nay he was
“groaned at,” when his name was first mentioned: but he is
struggling towards recognition.

In the course of the week, the Commons having called their Eldest
to the chair, and furnished him with young stronger-lunged
assistants,—can speak articulately; and, in audible lamentable
words, declare, as we said, that they are an inorganic body,
longing to become organic. Letters arrive; but an inorganic body
cannot open letters; they lie on the table unopened. The Eldest
may at most procure for himself some kind of List or Muster-roll,
to take the votes by, and wait what will betide. Noblesse and
Clergy are all elsewhere: however, an eager public crowds all
galleries and vacancies; which is some comfort. With effort, it
is determined, not that a Deputation shall be sent,—for how can
an inorganic body send deputations?—but that certain individual
Commons Members shall, in an accidental way, stroll into the
Clergy Chamber, and then into the Noblesse one; and mention
there, as a thing they have happened to observe, that the Commons
seem to be sitting waiting for them, in order to verify their
powers. That is the wiser method!

The Clergy, among whom are such a multitude of Undignified, of
mere Commons in Curates’ frocks, depute instant respectful answer
that they are, and will now more than ever be, in deepest study
as to that very matter. Contrariwise the Noblesse, in cavalier
attitude, reply, after four days, that they, for their part, are
all verified and constituted; which, they had trusted, the
Commons also were; such _separate_ verification being clearly the
proper constitutional wisdom-of-ancestors method;—as they the
Noblesse will have much pleasure in demonstrating by a Commission
of their number, if the Commons will meet them, Commission
against Commission! Directly in the rear of which comes a
deputation of Clergy, reiterating, in their insidious
conciliatory way, the same proposal. Here, then, is a complexity:
what will wise Commons say to this?

Warily, inertly, the wise Commons, considering that they are, if
not a French Third Estate, at least an Aggregate of individuals
pretending to some title of that kind, determine, after talking
on it five days, to name such a Commission,—though, as it were,
with proviso not to be convinced: a sixth day is taken up in
naming it; a seventh and an eighth day in getting the forms of
meeting, place, hour and the like, settled: so that it is not
till the evening of the 23rd of May that Noblesse Commission
first meets Commons Commission, Clergy acting as Conciliators;
and begins the impossible task of convincing it. One other
meeting, on the 25th, will suffice: the Commons are
inconvincible, the Noblesse and Clergy irrefragably convincing;
the Commissions retire; each Order persisting in its first
pretensions.[142]

Thus have three weeks passed. For three weeks, the Third-Estate
Carroccio, with far-seen Gonfalon, has stood stockstill, flouting
the wind; waiting what force would gather round it.

Fancy can conceive the feeling of the Court; and how counsel met
counsel, the loud-sounding inanity whirled in that distracted
vortex, where wisdom could not dwell. Your cunningly devised
Taxing-Machine has been got together; set up with incredible
labour; and stands there, its three pieces in contact; its two
fly-wheels of Noblesse and Clergy, its huge working-wheel of
Tiers-Etat. The two fly-wheels whirl in the softest manner; but,
prodigious to look upon, the huge working-wheel hangs motionless,
refuses to stir! The cunningest engineers are at fault. How
_will_ it work, when it does begin? Fearfully, my Friends; and to
many purposes; but to gather taxes, or grind court-meal, one may
apprehend, never. Could we but have continued gathering taxes _by
hand!_ Messeigneurs d’Artois, Conti, Condé (named Court
Triumvirate), they of the anti-democratic _Mémoire au Roi_, has
not their foreboding proved true? They may wave reproachfully
their high heads; they may beat their poor brains; but the
cunningest engineers can do nothing. Necker himself, were he even
listened to, begins to look blue. The only thing one sees
advisable is to bring up soldiers. New regiments, two, and a
battalion of a third, have already reached Paris; others shall
get in march. Good were it, in all circumstances, to have troops
within reach; good that the command were in sure hands. Let
Broglie be appointed; old Marshal Duke de Broglie; veteran
disciplinarian, of a firm drill-sergeant morality, such as may be
depended on.

For, alas, neither are the Clergy, or the very Noblesse what they
should be; and might be, when so menaced from without: entire,
undivided within. The Noblesse, indeed, have their Catiline or
Crispin D’Espréménil, dusky-glowing, all in renegade heat; their
boisterous Barrel-Mirabeau; but also they have their Lafayettes,
Liancourts, Lameths; above all, their D’Orléans, now cut forever
from his Court-moorings, and musing drowsily of high and highest
sea-prizes (for is not he too a son of Henri Quatre, and partial
potential Heir-Apparent?)—on his voyage towards Chaos. From the
Clergy again, so numerous are the Curés, actual deserters have
run over: two small parties; in the second party Curé Gregoire.
Nay there is talk of a whole Hundred and Forty-nine of them about
to desert in mass, and only restrained by an Archbishop of Paris.
It seems a losing game.

But judge if France, if Paris sat idle, all this while! Addresses
from far and near flow in: for our Commons have now grown organic
enough to open letters. Or indeed to cavil at them! Thus poor
Marquis de Brézé, Supreme Usher, Master of Ceremonies, or
whatever his title was, writing about this time on some
ceremonial matter, sees no harm in winding up with a “Monsieur,
yours with sincere attachment.”—‘To whom does it address itself,
this sincere attachment?’ inquires Mirabeau. ‘To the Dean of the
Tiers-Etat.’—‘There is no man in France entitled to write that,’
rejoins he; whereat the Galleries and the World will not be kept
from applauding.[143] Poor De Brézé! These Commons have a still
older grudge at him; nor has he yet done with them.

In another way, Mirabeau has had to protest against the quick
suppression of his Newspaper, _Journal of the
States-General;_—and to continue it under a new name. In which
act of valour, the Paris Electors, still busy redacting their
_Cahier_, could not but support him, by Address to his Majesty:
they claim utmost “provisory freedom of the press;” they have
spoken even about demolishing the Bastille, and erecting a Bronze
Patriot King on the site!—These are the rich Burghers: but now
consider how it went, for example, with such loose miscellany,
now all grown eleutheromaniac, of Loungers, Prowlers, social
Nondescripts (and the distilled Rascality of our Planet), as
whirls forever in the Palais Royal;—or what low infinite groan,
first changing into a growl, comes from Saint-Antoine, and the
Twenty-five Millions in danger of starvation!

There is the indisputablest scarcity of corn;—be it
Aristocrat-plot, D’Orléans-plot, of this year; or drought and
hail of last year: in city and province, the poor man looks
desolately towards a nameless lot. And this States-General, that
could make us an age of gold, is forced to stand motionless;
cannot get its powers verified! All industry necessarily
languishes, if it be not that of making motions.

In the Palais Royal there has been erected, apparently by
subscription, a kind of Wooden Tent (_en planches de
bois_);[144]—most convenient; where select Patriotism can now
redact resolutions, deliver harangues, with comfort, let the
weather but as it will. Lively is that Satan-at-Home! On his
table, on his chair, in every _café_, stands a patriotic orator;
a crowd round him within; a crowd listening from without,
open-mouthed, through open door and window; with “thunders of
applause for every sentiment of more than common hardiness.” In
Monsieur Dessein’s Pamphlet-shop, close by, you cannot without
strong elbowing get to the counter: every hour produces its
pamphlet, or litter of pamphlets; “there were thirteen today,
sixteen yesterday, nine-two last week.”[145] Think of Tyranny and
Scarcity; Fervid-eloquence, Rumour, Pamphleteering; _Societé
Publicole_, Breton Club, Enraged Club;—and whether every
tap-room, coffee-room, social reunion, accidental street-group,
over wide France, was not an Enraged Club!

To all which the Commons Deputies can only listen with a sublime
inertia of sorrow; reduced to busy themselves “with their
internal police.” Surer position no Deputies ever occupied; if
they keep it with skill. Let not the temperature rise too high;
break not the Eros-egg till it be hatched, till it break itself!
An eager public crowds all Galleries and vacancies! “cannot be
restrained from applauding.” The two Privileged Orders, the
Noblesse all verified and constituted, may look on with what face
they will; not without a secret tremor of heart. The Clergy,
always acting the part of conciliators, make a clutch at the
Galleries, and the popularity there; and miss it. Deputation of
them arrives, with dolorous message about the “dearth of grains,”
and the necessity there is of casting aside vain formalities, and
deliberating on this. An insidious proposal; which, however, the
Commons (moved thereto by seagreen Robespierre) dexterously
accept as a sort of hint, or even pledge, that the Clergy will
forthwith come over to them, constitute the States-General, and
so cheapen grains![146]—Finally, on the 27th day of May,
Mirabeau, judging the time now nearly come, proposes that “the
inertia cease;” that, leaving the Noblesse to their own stiff
ways, the Clergy be summoned, “in the name of the God of Peace,”
to join the Commons, and begin.[147] To which summons if they
turn a deaf ear,—we shall see! Are not one Hundred and Forty-nine
of them ready to desert?

O Triumvirate of Princes, new Garde-des-Sceaux Barentin, thou
Home-Secretary Bréteuil, Duchess Polignac, and Queen eager to
listen,—what is now to be done? This Third Estate will get in
motion, with the force of all France in it; Clergy-machinery with
Noblesse-machinery, which were to serve as beautiful
counter-balances and drags, will be shamefully dragged after
it,—and take fire along with it. What is to be done? The
Œil-de-Bœuf waxes more confused than ever. Whisper and
counter-whisper; a very tempest of whispers! Leading men from all
the Three Orders are nightly spirited thither; conjurors many of
them; but can they conjure this? Necker himself were now welcome,
could he interfere to purpose.

Let Necker interfere, then; and in the King’s name! Happily that
incendiary “God-of-Peace” message is not yet _answered_. The
Three Orders shall again have conferences; under this Patriot
Minister of theirs, somewhat may be healed, clouted up;—we
meanwhile getting forward Swiss Regiments, and a “hundred pieces
of field-artillery.” This is what the Œil-de-Bœuf, for its part,
resolves on.

But as for Necker—Alas, poor Necker, thy obstinate Third Estate
has one first-last word, _verification in common_, as the pledge
of voting and deliberating in common! Half-way proposals, from
such a tried friend, they answer with a stare. The tardy
conferences speedily break up; the Third Estate, now ready and
resolute, the whole world backing it, returns to its Hall of the
Three Orders; and Necker to the Œil-de-Bœuf, with the character
of a disconjured conjuror there—fit only for dismissal.[148]

And so the Commons Deputies are at last on their own strength
getting under way? Instead of Chairman, or Dean, they have now
got a President: Astronomer Bailly. Under way, with a vengeance!
With endless vociferous and temperate eloquence, borne on
Newspaper wings to all lands, they have now, on this 17th day of
June, determined that their name is not _Third Estate_,
but—_National Assembly!_ They, then, are the Nation? Triumvirate
of Princes, Queen, refractory Noblesse and Clergy, what, then,
are _you?_ A most deep question;—scarcely answerable in living
political dialects.

All regardless of which, our new National Assembly proceeds to
appoint a “committee of subsistences;” dear to France, though it
can find little or no grain. Next, as if our National Assembly
stood quite firm on its legs,—to appoint “four other standing
committees;” then to settle the security of the National Debt;
then that of the Annual Taxation: all within eight-and-forty
hours. At such rate of velocity it is going: the conjurors of the
Œil-de-Bœuf may well ask themselves, Whither?