I've been dreading this, I must confess...
Sunday, 18 November 2007 22:32![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
montagnarde1793...But I'm posting it anyway. It will have to be in (at least) two parts, since despite the small part Éléonore plays in this book proportionately, it's rather... excessive vast.
Page 371
A tall, plain woman in a dark dress came out of the side door. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘what is the matter, we heard shouting, is there some trouble in the street?’
‘Eléonore [Éléonore],’ he said, ‘go in, and tell your mother that Citizen Robespierre has come to stay with us at last.’
Page 400
He had warned me [Danton] what to expect from the Duplays. ‘There … are … these … dreadful … people,’ he had said. But that day he was engaged in pretending to be Hérault de Séchelles, so I did not take him too seriously. ‘There is, first, the paterfamilias Maurice. He is fifty or fifty-five, balding and very, very earnest. He can bring out only the worst in our dear Robespierre. Madame is a homely sort, and can never have been even tolerably good-looking. There is a son, also called Maurice, and a nephew, Simon—these last both young, and apparently quite witless.’
‘But tell me about the three daughters,’ I said. ‘Are they worth calling on?’
Camille gave an aristocratic groan. ‘There is Victoire, who cannot easily be distinguished from the furniture. She never opened her mouth—’
‘Not surprising, if you were in this mood,’ Lucile said. (She was, however, vastly entertained.)
‘There is the little one, Elisabeth [Élisabeth]—they call her Babette [Babet]—who is tolerable, if you like goose-girls. And the eldest—words fail me.’
They didn't, of course. Eléonore, it appeared, was an unfortunate girl, plain, drab and pretentious; she was an art student under David, and preferred to her own perfectly adequate name the classical appellation ‘Cornélia’: this detail, I confess, I found risible.
To dispel any remaining illusions, he opined that the bed curtains in Robespierre's room were made out of Madame's old dresses, because they were just the kind of ghastly fabric she would choose for her personal adornment. Camille goes on like this for days on end, and it's impossible to get any sense out of him.
They are good people, I suppose; have struggled to get to their present comfortable position. Duplay is a staunch patriot: goes in for plain speaking at the Jacobins, but is modest with it. Maximilien seems at home there. It probably, when I think of it, helps him financially to live with them. He gave up his post as Public Prosecutor as soon as he decently could, saying that it interfered with his ‘larger work.’ So he has no office, no salary, and must be living on savings. I understand that wealthy but disinterested patriots send him drafts on their bankers. And what do you think? Yes, he writes polite notes and sends them back.
The daughters—the shy one is nothing worse than that, and Babette has a certain schoolroom appeal. Eléonore, I admit…
They do their best to make him comfortable: God knows, it's time somebody did that. It is a rather spartan comfort, by our refurbished standards; I'm afraid it brings out the worst in us when we sneer at the Duplays, with what Camille calls their ‘good plain food and good plain daughters.’
[…]
They're grateful he turned up on their doorstep at all, but that's no longer enough. They fasten their eyes on him, Father, Mother, young Maurice, and Simon, Victoire, Eléonore, Babette. In his place I should ask myself: what do these people really want? What will I lose if I give it to them?
Page 415
‘You will have to go away,’ Robespierre said. ‘I can’t argue with you this morning. I have to conserve my strength for important things. But if you commit yourself to paper, I shall never trust you again.’
Camille backed out of the room.
Eléonore Duplay was standing outside. He knew she had been listening, because of the sudden vivacity in her dreary eyes. ‘Ah, it’s Cornélia [Cornélie],’ he said. He had never in his life spoken to a woman in that tone; she would have excited cruelty in a mouse.
‘We wouldn’t have let you in if we’d known you were going to upset him. Don’t come again. In any case, he won’t see you.’
She ran her eyes over him. I hoped you would quarrel, they said.
‘You and your ghastly family, Eléonore. Do you think you own him? Do you think because he condescends to stay under your roof you have the right to decide who comes and goes? Do you think you are going to keep him away from his oldest friend?’
‘You are so sure of yourself, aren’t you?’
‘With reason,’ Camille said. ‘Oh, Cornélia, you are so transparent. I know exactly what your plans are. I know exactly what you think. You think he’ll marry you. Forget it, my dear. He won’t.’
That was the only spark of satisfaction in the day. Lucile sat waiting for him sadly, her little hands resting on the draped bulk of the child. Life was no fun now. She had reached the stage when women looked at her with lively sympathy: when men’s eyes passed over her as if she were an old sofa.
‘There’s a note from Max,’ she said. ‘I opened it. He says he regrets what happened this morning, he spoke hastily, and he begs you to forgive him. And Georges called. He said “Sorry.”’
‘I had a wonderful row with Eléonore. They’re predatory, those people. I wonder, you know, what would happen to me if Danton and Robespierre ever disagreed?’
‘You have a mind of your own.’
‘Yes, but you will find it doesn’t work out like that.’
Page 446
He had a speech to write. What stupendous self-control, he thought, if I could write any of it, but I don't suppose I will. He got up and looked out of the window for a while. Maurice Duplay's workmen were fetching and carrying in the yard below. Seeing him watching them, they raised hands in greeting. He could go down and talk to them, but he might meet Eléonore. Or he might meet Mme Duplay, and she would trap him in that drawing room of hers, and expect him to make conversation, and eat things. He had a dread of that room, with its vast articles—you could only call them that—of mahogany furniture, and its dark red draperies of Utrecht velvet, with its old-fashioned hangings and its enameled stove that gave off a fume-laden heat. It was a room for hopes to die in; he imagined picking up a crimson cushion, and placing it decisively over Eléonore's face.
He wrote. He tried a paragraph. He deleted it. He began again. Time passed, he supposed. Then a little scratch at the door. ‘Camille, can I come in?’
‘You may.’
Oh why be like that? On edge.
Elisabeth Duplay. ‘Are you busy?’
He put the pen down. ‘I'm supposed to be writing a speech, but I'm not concentrating. My wife—’
‘I know.’ She closed the door softly. Babette. The goose-girl. ‘So would you like it if I stayed and talked to you?’
‘That,’ Camille said, ‘would be very nice.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, Camille, you are sour. You don't really think it would be very nice, you think it would be a bore.’
‘If I thought it would be a bore, I would say so.’
‘You have such a reputation for charm, but we don't see much of it in this house. You're never charming to my sister Eléonore. Although—I must admit—I'd often like to be rude to Eléonore myself, but I'm the youngest, and in our family we've been brought up to be polite to our elders.’
‘Quite right,’ Camille said. He was perfectly serious. He couldn't understand why she kept laughing. Then suddenly he could. When she laughed she was quite pretty. She was quite pretty anyway. An improvement on her sisters.
Page 475
Rue Saint-Honoré: ‘Some breakfast?’ said Eléonore Duplay.
‘I don’t think so, Eléonore.’
‘Max, why not eat?’
‘Because I never eat at this hour,’ Robespierre said. ‘At this hour I answer my letters.’
Babette at the door. Round morning face. ‘Father sent this up. Danton is signing proclamations at City Hall.’
Robespierre let the document lie on his desk. He did not touch it, but ran his eyes to the signature. ‘In the name of the nation – DANTON.’
‘So Danton claims to speak for the nation?’ Eléonore said. She watched his face.
‘Danton is an excellent patriot. Only – I thought he would have sent for me by now.’
‘They dare not risk your life.’
Robespierre looked up. ‘Oh no, that’s not it. I think Danton doesn’t want me to – what shall we say? – study his methods.’
‘That may be so,’ Eléonore agreed. What did it matter? She would say anything: anything that would keep him safe behind Duplay’s wall, that would keep his heart beating till tomorrow and tomorrow and the day after that.
Page 521
The officials of the Commune drew up warrants for the immediate arrest of Brissot and Roland. Robespierre went home.
Eléonore Duplay caught him as he crossed the courtyard. ‘Is it true that everyone in the prisons is being killed?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Aghast: ‘But you’d have to know, they can’t do anything without asking you.’
He put out a hand and pulled her to his side, not in intimacy, but because he wanted to influence the expression on her face. ‘Supposing it were true, my dear Eléonore, my dear Cornélia, would you cry about it? If you think of the people the Austrians are killing now, driving them out of their farms, burning their roofs over their heads – well, which would you cry for?’
‘I don’t question it,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t be wrong.’
‘Well, which would you cry for?’ He answered himself. ‘Both.’
Page 540
Eléonore: She had thought, when all this is over, Max will marry me. She had hinted it to her mother. ‘Yes, I think so,’ Mme. Duplay had said comfortably.
A few days later her father took her aside. With a thoughtful, embarrassed gesture, he smoothed his thinning hair over his scalp. ‘He's a great patriot,’ he said. It seemed to be worrying him. ‘I should think he's very fond of you. He's very reserved, isn't he, in his private capacity? Not that one would wish him any different. A great patriot.’
‘Yes.’ She was irritated. Did her father imagine that her pride in him needed to be bolstered in this way?
‘It's a great honor that he lives here with us, and so of course we ought to do all we can….The fact is, you're already married, in my eyes.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘I'd rely on you…If there were anything you could do to make his life more comfortable—’
‘Father, didn't you hear me, I said, I see what you mean.’
Finally, she let her hair down, so that it tumbled over her square shoulders and down her back. She pushed it away from her small breasts and leaned into the mirror to scrutinize herself. Perhaps it is folly to imagine that with my plain face…Lucile Desmoulins had come yesterday, bringing the baby for them to see. They fussed around her and chattered, and she had passed the baby to Victoire and sat alone: one hand drooping over the arm of the chair, like a winter flower touched with ice. When Max had come in, she had turned her head, smiled; and sudden pleasure lit his face. It ought to be called brotherly affection, what he felt for Lucile; but for me, she thought, if there were any justice it ought to be more than that.
She smoothed her hand down over her flat belly and hips. She began to take pleasure in the softness of her own skin; she felt what his hands would feel. But when she turned away from the mirror, she saw for a moment the square, solid lines of her body, and, as she eased herself into the bed and put her head on his pillow, only a residue of disappointment remained. As she lay and waited, her whole body locked rigid in anticipation.
She heard him climbing the stairs; turned her face resolutely to the door. For one dreadful half-second she imagined that—Oh God, is it possible—the dog might burst in, hurl himself upon her, panting and grinning, whining and slurping, snatching up (as he was prone to do) jawfuls of her very clean and well-brushed hair.
But the door handle turned, and nothing and no one entered. He hesitated on the threshold of the room, and looked as if he might back out, and down the stairs again. Then, deciding, he stepped in. Eyes met; of course, they would. He had a sheaf of loose papers in his hands, and as he reached out to put them down, his eyes still on her face, some of them went fluttering to the floor.
‘Shut the door,’ she said. She hoped it would be all that she would need to say, perfect understanding then; but emerging from her mouth it sounded just a practical suggestion, as if she were incommoded by a draught.
‘Eléonore, are you sure about this?’
An expression of impatience and self-mockery crossed his face; it did seem that she had made up her mind. He lifted her hands, kissed her fingertips. He wanted to say, very clearly, we can't do this; as he bent to retrieve the scattered papers, blood rushed into his face, and he realized the total impossibility of asking her to get up and go.
When he turned back to her she was sitting up. ‘No one will complain,’ she said. ‘They understand. We're not children. They're not going to make things difficult for us.’
Are they not, though, he thought. He sat down on the bed and stroked her breast, the nipple hardening into the palm of his hand. His face expressed concern for her.
‘It's all right,’ she said. ‘Really.’
No one had ever kissed her before. He did it very gently, but still, she seemed surprised. He thought that he had better take his clothes off because in a minute she would start advising it, telling him that was all right too. He touched alien flesh, soft, strange; there was a girl he used to see when he came to Versailles at first, but she was not a good girl, not in any sense, and it had been easier to drift apart, and since then it had been easier not to do anything, celibacy is easy, but half-celibacy is very hard, women don't keep secrets and the papers are avid for gossip….Eléonore did not seem to expect or want any delay. She pushed her body against his, but it was stiff with the anticipation of pain. She knows the mechanics, he thought, but no one has introduced her to the art. Does she know she might begin to bleed? He felt a sharp, nauseous pang.
‘Eléonore, close your eyes,’ he whispered to her. ‘You should try to relax, just a minute until you feel—’ Better, he had almost said, as if it were a sickbed. He touched her hair, kissed her again. She didn't touch him; she hadn't thought of it. He pushed her legs apart a little. ‘I don't want you to be frightened,’ he said.
‘It's all right.’
But it wasn't. He couldn't force his way into her dry and rigid body without using a brutality he couldn't call up. After a minute or two he propped himself on his elbow and looked down at her. ‘Don't try to rush,’ he said. He slipped a hand under her buttocks. Eléonore, he would have liked to say, I'm not practiced at this, and I wouldn't describe you as a natural. She arched her body against his. Someone's told her to work hard for what she wants in life, to grit her teeth and never give up…poor Eléonore, poor women. Rather unexpectedly, and at a faintly peculiar angle, he penetrated her. She did not make a sound. He gathered her head against his shoulder so that he did not have to see her face and would not know if he hurt her. He eased himself around—not that there was much ease about it—into a more agreeable position. He thought again, it's been too long, you do this often or not at all. And so of course, it was over quickly. He buried in her neck a faint sound of release. He let her go, and her head dropped back against the pillow.
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘It's all right.’
He rolled over on his side and closed his eyes. She would be thinking, so that's it, is it, is that what the fuss is about? Of course she would think that. It was his own disappointment he couldn't get over, a kind of bitter, strained feeling in his throat. There's a lesson somewhere, he thought; when pleasures you deny yourself turn out not to be pleasures, you're doubly destroyed, for not only do you lose an illusion, you also feel futile. It had been much better, of course, with the
‘I'll get up now,’ she said.
He put an arm round her. ‘Stay.’ He kissed her breasts.
‘All right. If you want.’
He made tentative exploration. There was no blood, at least he didn't think so. He thought, presumably she will actually know that there is more to it, that it gets better with practice, because she will understand that for some people it is such an important part of their lives.
Now at last she relaxed a little. She smiled. It was a smile of accomplishment. Who can guess what she's thinking? ‘This bed's not very big,’ she said.
‘No, but—’ If it came to that, he would just have to tell her. He would have to say Eléonore, Cornélia, much as I appreciate the free and generous offer of your body, I have no intention of spending my nights with you, even if your whole family helps us to move the furniture. He closed his eyes again. He tried to think what excuse he could make to Maurice when he left the house, how he would cope with Madame's questions, no doubt tears. He thought then of the recrimination that would descend on Eléonore's muddled and guiltless head, and the feminine spite. And besides, he didn't want to go, to cold and unfrequented rooms in another district, and meet Maurice Duplay at the Jacobins, and nod to him, and refrain from asking after the family. And he knew, quite certainly, that this would happen again. When Eléonore decided that it was time she'd just trip upstairs and wait for him, and he wouldn't be able to send her away, and more than he had the first time. He wondered who she'd confide in, because she'd need advice on how often to expect it; and the disastrous possibilities came tumbling in on his head, as he tried to delimit the circle of her female friends. It was fortunate that she hardly knew Mme. Danton.
He must have gone to sleep then, and when he woke up she had gone. It was 9 p. m. Tomorrow, he thought, she will go bouncing along the street, smiling at people and paying calls for no real reason.
In the days afterwards he became sick with guilt. The second time she was easier, less tense, but she never gave any sign of experiencing pleasure. It came to him that if she found herself pregnant they would have to be married very quickly. Perhaps, he thought, when the Convention meets, new people will come to the house, and perhaps someone will like her, and I can be generous and release her from any promise or tie.
But in his heart, he knew this wouldn't happen. No one would like her. The family wouldn't let them like her. The people who're married, he thought, can get divorced now. But the only thing that will release us is if one of us dies.
Page 545
[Danton to Desmoulins:] ‘Hérault will be jealous. The women will be interested in someone else.’
‘Hérault need not worry. Saint-Just isn’t interested in women.’
‘You used to say that about Saint Maximilien, but now he has the delightful Cornélia. Yes, isn’t it so?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I do.’
So that was common gossip now, besides the supposed infidelity of Roland’s wife and the ménage here at the Place des Piques. What things for people to occupy themselves with, he thought.
Page 553
Mme Duplay – mother of so many – could claim that she understood girls. She understood her mortally shy Victoire, her serious and awkward Eléonore and her pretty child-like Babette. She also understood Charlotte Robespierre. But she didn’t know what to do with her.
Page 556
‘Augustin, you must put all this behind you. You’re in
[…]
‘I have a sense of duty,’
‘I know,
‘You shouldn’t be living here.’
‘Why not?’ He knew one good guilty reason why not; probably, he thought, so did she.
Page 557
‘We could have privacy. A nice convenient apartment of our own.’
It would solve some problems, he thought. Her face darkened as she watched him, expecting contradiction. He opened his mouth to agree. ‘And there’s another thing,’ she said.
He stopped short. ‘And what is that?’
‘These girls. Maximilien, I’ve seen Augustin ruining himself with women.’
So she knew. Did she? ‘How is he ruined?’
‘Well, he would have been, if it weren’t for me. And that wretched old woman has no other aim in life but to get those girls into your bed. Whether she’s succeeded I leave to your conscience. That little horror Elisabeth looks at men as if – I can’t describe it. If any harm ever came to her, it wouldn’t be the man I’d blame.’
‘
‘Well, you have now. What about it then? Shall I look for an apartment for us?’
‘No. We’ll stay as we are. I can’t bear to live with you. You’re just as bad as you ever were.’ And just as mad, he thought.
Page 562
‘Bourg-la-République,’ Camille said. ‘Good patriots don’t have weekends.’
‘Oh, you can have a weekend if you want to,’ Robespierre said.
‘I wish you’d join us,’ Claude said. ‘But I suppose not.’
‘I am very busy just now. This business with Louvet has wasted my time.’
And you would not be allowed to come, Camille thought, not without Eléonore and Mother as chaperone to Eléonore and Charlotte as chaperone to Mother, and Babette because she would scream if denied the treat, and Victoire because it wasn’t fair to leave her at home.
Page 565
‘Will you come and see my sister?’
‘Will Eléonore be at home?’
‘She'll be at her drawing class. I know she doesn't like you.’
‘Are you going to marry her?’
‘I don't know. How can I? She's jealous of my friends, of my occupations.’
‘Won't you have to marry her?’
‘Eventually, perhaps.’
‘Also—no, never mind.’
Very often, he had come close to telling Robespierre what had happened with Babette on the morning his son was born. But Max was so fond of the girl, so much more at ease with her than with most people, and it seemed cruel to hunt out trust from where he had reposed it. And it would be horrible to be disbelieved; he might be disbelieved. Again, how to retell exactly what had been said and done, without putting your own interpretation on it, and submit it to another judgment? It wasn't possible. So at the Duplay house he was very polite to everybody—except Eléonore—and very careful; and still the incident preyed upon his mind.
Page 582
A few days later Robespierre was back at the Duplays’: his head throbbing from three sleepless nights in a row, a giant hand wringing his intestines. Chalk-white and shaky, he sat with Mme Duplay in the small room filled with his portraits. He didn’t much resemble any of them; he didn’t think he’d ever look healthy again.
‘Everything is as you left it,’ she said. ‘Dr Souberbielle has been sent for. You are under a great strain, and you can’t tolerate any disturbance in your life.’ She covered his hand with her own. ‘We have been like people bereaved. Eléonore has hardly eaten, and I’ve not been able to get two words out of her. You must never go away again.’
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: Friday, 9 July 2010 07:49 (UTC)May I just take a moment to applaud the hilarious awesomeness of this turn of phrase?
You're right, of course: even if Éléonore had been ugly, it might well be beside the point. At all events, as I said, I've never seen a primary source that commented on her looks, for good or ill, so what modern authors decide about them can be revealing. (There was one godawful history of the Revolution that referred to her as something along the lines of "Robespierre's fat mistress." Go figure.)
The "âme virile" quote comes from Esquiros's Histoire des Montagnards. Esquiros interviewed Élisabeth Le Bas rather extensively, but I certainly wouldn't exclude the possibility that he just made it up. However, I happen to like it, even if I wouldn't give necessarily give it out as genuine, for obvious reasons.
I had the feeling I was reading bad fanfiction when I was going on with the awful characterisation of bi!Camille and the gratuitous abuse of Éléonore is really not helping matters.
Maybe PoGS would have been more entertaining if she had gone through with it. Though I have a sneaking suspicion she would have ruined that too. Bad fanfiction can ruin the best conceits, after all, and Robespierre/Camille is always a bit dubious, at best.
I really don't know who listens to him.
I have this theory that people don't actually read his books; they just buy them so they can look "intelligent."
I think half the reason I dislike psychoanalytical approaches to history is that I could sit around and write crack theories on history all day - why should these guys get paid for it?
There is, unfortunately, no concept of "should" in the publishing industry, that's why.
I've only read summaries of Gallo it has to be said
Gallo's not a bad sort (though I could do without his Gaulliste politics), he's just really a historical novelist at heart. I think I saw him described somewhere as a latter-day Alexandre Dumas, and I believe it. His problem is that he crafts Robespierre into a character in a romantic historical novel, instead of writing a biography of him.
I think Robespierre is remarkably sane
I agree. Despairing, at the end - and at points in between - yes, insane, no. In fact, one might well say that an excess of lucidity was the cause of that despair.
(no subject)
Date: Friday, 9 July 2010 22:08 (UTC)Ah the curse of Scurr strikes again, quote as fact anything you can no matter how dubious the source. Then, just ascribe it to Thompson 1937. She ascribes everything to Thompson 1937, when you do sometimes feel it might be nice if she mentioned the original source so one could judge the veracity.
Thank you for clearing that up, I was just curious as if he had said it - if it had been in a letter or something why everybody was still debating the whether he had a girlfriend point.
I have this theory that people don't actually read his books; they just buy them so they can look "intelligent."
I was googling images of Robespierre a while back and one of the first images links to a Zizek fan-cartoon (http://uberdionysus.livejournal.com/475270.html) which features Danton and Desmoulins' severed heads and the line "I'm not sure what Zizek is arguing but the dude is smart so I'm sticking with it." Another poster adds "I will love Zizek forever and ever. I don't care how crazy he gets or how little sense he makes."
Do I need to comment? That's the sort of comment that is acceptable when discussing avant-garde recording artistes. This chap even looks like Zizek. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aukzh-O6x3g) It's not so acceptable when you are permitting yourself to be talked into mass bloodshed and state control. One does wonder if "Zeezee" has read the speeches he introduces.
Though I have a sneaking suspicion she would have ruined that too. Bad fanfiction can ruin the best conceits,
I think you are right. To do decent fanfic, even decent crackfic you have to like your characters, or at least have a reasonable interest in them. She might have started out like that, but by the time she finally published her whole opus could be summed up in the words - The poor deluded fools.
and Robespierre/Camille is always a bit dubious, at best.
Randomly, and following on probably from my asumption by osmosis that Robespierre had "issues" with women, I'd always assumed that Robespierre/Saint-Just was well, if not historical at least apocryphal. I must just have watched too many FR movies.
Now I write dubious slash for kicks and have done for the last seven years and I maintain that Hillary would have had her arse kicked on any fanforum if she posted a gay character as badly thought through as her Camille. That whole being turned gay thing...just toxic.
I did find the idea of a teenage Camille suddenly realising he has a huge, huge, crush on his very straight and very oblivious best friend quite charming. (Robespierre would always be wet, or slightly out of breath, or staring out fourth floor windows with huge shining eyes declaiming something like "can you imagine, no original sin, we are all born free," in an awestruck voice.) But then it just struck me that it must have been fucking awful to discover you were gay in a country where it is still a capital crime, it must have been terrifying to suddenly get same-sex feelings in those circumstances, and I thought if I wasn't prepared to deal with that I should probably give over writing about it. (Hillary doesn't deal with this - or the subsequent decriminalisation of homosexuality by the revolutionaries and this seems like a bit of a glaring ommission if you are trying to write honestly about being a bisexual man in historical times. A blank gay-okay background is fine for historical PWP but if your trying to be semi-serious expect to be called on it.)
His problem is that he crafts Robespierre into a character in a romantic historical novel, instead of writing a biography of him.
See, now that just makes me think of Robespierre in a Camille wig, accessorised by thunderstorms.
(no subject)
Date: Saturday, 10 July 2010 00:11 (UTC)I agree. Despairing, at the end - and at points in between - yes, insane, no. In fact, one might well say that an excess of lucidity was the cause of that despair.
I chopped this, because I have a whole rant on Robespierre's sanity. I realise declaring someone sane is still psychoanalysing them to some degree and therefore this is a little hypocritical but still. There are three main arguments for Robespierre being mad, and in my honest opinion, they're all total crap.
1)Robespierre was nuts because he had a dreadful childhood.
If you are going to play the awful childhood card, the aristos will always win hands down. His father might have been a shmuck but he didn't try and shoot him, or lock him up naked in his own faeces, or teach him to lie, lie and lie again.
I don't completely agree with the theory of personality disorders, although when I was trained on them the lecturer did add - "these traits are not wholy negative, combined with a high level of education anti-social personalities often do well in business and politics because they can be ruthless and function believing the rules don't apply to them." This is obviously a simplifcation, but it does seem to fit the aristocratic world view. Robespierre was never fucked up enough to believe he was above the rules.
Robespierre's mum died and he was sad. Yes. Indeed. That is a sane response. If she'd have died and he had been cheerful, then one would have worried. He grew up in adversity, but he had some really strong protective factors working for him, he was intelligent, he did well at school and he was a healthy(ish) eldest male child. (Some early social scientist in the 30s found extended families will move hell and high water to keep the eldest male child alive and sane when a family unit implodes because that child is seen as the key to the families future.)
Aaand Robespierre had a dog. Alright, we don't know if Robespierre grew up with a dog, but having a dog is a pretty strong protective factor for kids growing up in adversity - I think that's Fongay et al 1994 and I always quote it because I think it's awesome. Prescribe dogs not Ritalin!
2) Robespierre was obviously very messed up because he tried so desperately to recreate the family he never had with the Duplays.
Uh no. Most people will spin a mutually supportive social network around them, and if it's not a defacto family, it often functions like one. It only becomes troubling if the person in question constantly sabotages this support network or accepts abuse in order to keep a support network. Unless one accepts PoGS as truth Robespierre fit into neither category.
Also, don't you really have to have quite a strong sense of self worth not to be swayed by having to prove yourself to the world through your status. Robespierre didn't seem to care about money, or about the fact he lived with a carpenter, he did what made him happy, what met his needs without any of the neurotic show most people who govern feel the need to put on and that to me is a mark of deep and profound sanity.
I sometimes think the reason Robespierre offends so much as a leader is because he was, in his life so normal and so ordinary. Perhaps that's why even quite right-wing people can live with Danton, who was prepared to act like a ruler even in a democracy, but loathe and fear Robespierre.
Freron also seemed to think there was something odd going on with the Duplays and he's horribly patronising to them, but then Freron didn't really think Maurice Duplay should be allowed to vote, much less live with members of the government.
Robespierre was insane because he was a paranoid blood-thirsty monster.
Paranoia is the delusion that people are out to harm you. People really were out to harm Robespierre. You get to your sad point, that by the end of year two beginning of year three, Robespierre could really have done with that dash of psychopath. He couldn't kid himself either politically or morally, lucidity left him with no defences against the despair.
We had a general election this year on Robespierre's birthday. I can't say much for the result, but we had an election with universal suffrage and it seemed kind of a good way to commemorate Robespierre.
(no subject)
Date: Saturday, 10 July 2010 02:44 (UTC)