Part XXX (1)

[montagnarde1793]

So I finally finished typing up the next passages for last month's revolution_frprompt--and I'm still not done. What can I say, I'm a bit behind. Anyway, this next passage isn't bad, in my humble opinion, especially not for a novel written in English. The names are a bit weird though. (It should be noted though, that Victoire's name was changed to Vivienne in order to avoid confusion with a friend of Claire Lacombe's, who is a more major character in the novel, as the author makes clear in the note preceding the work.) Also, something that amused me about this book--though I didn't include it in the excerpt--is that Maxime is something of a "The Sorrows of Young Werther" fanboy in it.

City of Darkness, City of Light

Marge Piercy

1996

 

Page 227

                […] There were also oil paintings he [Robespierre] recognized as influenced by David, heroic scenes of Roman tableaux, the taking of the Bastille, a portrait of Monsieur and Madame Duplay. […]

                “I see you looking at the portraits. Eléanore [Éléonore], our oldest, did that. She’s a real painter. She’s studying with Regnault. Have you heard of him?” Mme Duplay seemed to want his approval for her daughter’s apprenticeship.

                “I have. She has a worthy master.”

 

Page 228

                Vivienne [Victoire] said, “Here’s Papa for his dinner.”

                Just behind him came the last daughter. She saw him at once, and her dark eyes grew very wide. He supposed that she would not be considered as pretty as Elisabeth [Élisabeth], yet she carried herself with dignity and an authority that was surprising in a young woman. She could be no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. “Citizen,” she said in a low gentle voice. “It is an honor to see you here. All Paris is turned upside down. I hope we have the pleasure of giving you sanctuary while this madness endures.”

                “What have you heard?” he asked her.

                Madame said hastily. “This is Eléanore. You may have seen her at the Jacobins too. She’s also a member of the Tricolor Brushes, who make paintings and engravings of patriotic scenes for education of the people.”

                “I’ve been admiring your work.”

                He could see she had trouble not curtseying. She kept her eyes on him as she sat at the table, some distance away. He motioned her closer, and slowly, she obeyed. “Again, what have you heard?”

                “There are warrants out for many patriotic leaders. Etta Palm d’Aelders has been put in prison for saying that women should have rights. The Social Circle has been forbidden to have public meetings. The Iron Mouth has been shut down. Marat is in danger again and like yourself, has had to seek shelter with friends. Danton and Desmoulins have disappeared, arrested or in hiding. Half the newspapers of Paris have been suppressed. Bailly has declared martial law.” She spoke quickly but firmly, reporting without emotion or rhetoric. Clearly, she could be relied on as an observer. She could be useful to him while he was in hiding. He could have her keep an eye on the Jacobin Club until he could return.

                “Everything has happened in a matter of hours. Clearly, they were waiting and prepared for this opportunity to close us all down,” he said.

                “You should clear my room for Citizen Robespierre,” Eléanore said.

                Vivienne piped up. “I already cleared Elisabeth’s, and moved her in with me.”

                “You need room for your paintings, child,” Madame said.

                “I need very little,” he said, as before. He smiled at Vivienne. He did not bother smiling at Eléanore, for he felt it was not necessary.

                The meal was more than he desired, but they allowed him to pick and choose. It was a good family atmosphere here, almost the ideal family he had fantasized since childhood. Then he thought it would be with his own sisters and brother. But in truth these people were far more agreeable and politically savvy than his sister. Augustin he knew little about, for it had been years since they spent time together.

                When he rose, Eléanore jumped up as if on command and followed him upstairs. “I’ll help you unpack,” she said.

                “Will your mother mind?”

                “Oh, no. We all want to make your stay pleasant.” She did not blush, she did not flirt. She unpacked his clothes efficiently, handling each item with a cool reverence. When he was ready to work, he dismissed her, and she went without a backward glance.

                He had the strangest feeling with her, from the first moment, almost as if he remembered her. It was as if he had recovered a lost inheritance, something that belonged to him that had been estranged or forgotten. After supper, he summoned her and gave her instructions for the Jacobin Club. He told her to report to him at once when he returned, no matter at what hour. She nodded, asked a few questions about how specific her notes were to be. Then she went off.

                When she came in, the older Duplays and her sisters had retired. She came into his room without coquettishness or hesitation and began at once to report on what had been an extremely long and stormy session, full of recriminations. He questioned her closely, taking notes on her notes. He corrected the spelling of some names.

                It was after midnight. She was alone with him in his room, yet no one in the house seemed to question his right or her duty. She was utterly matter-of-fact in her deportment. She did not touch him, she did not lean forward or brush against him or give him melting looks. He looked at her openly, admiring her and studying her. On one level, there was no hint of sex or anything muddy or murky. On a deeper level, he understood that she was utterly his. She had already given herself over to him absolutely, although they scarcely knew each other.

                Lafayette [La Fayette] and Bailly and their gang of traitors had given him quite by accident what he had never expected to enjoy. After less than twenty-four hours he knew what he had found. He now had a family, in all ways superior to his own. He had a living situation where he could work without a thought for expense, for they had made clear they would accept nothing from him except his presence, where he would be cared for and protected and even coddled. And he had been given the only woman he had ever met with whom he could have some kind of relationship, what kind he did not know: only that whatever he wanted from Eléanore, she would give him without blinking, without hesitation, without terms. Whether he ever touched her, whether he ever spoke on word of courtship or affection or not, she was his.

 

Page 249

                Or perhaps they [the Feuillants] thought that by walking out of the Jacobins, they had destroyed the Club, and he [Robespierre] was no longer to be feared. But they had walked out dramatically, a poor way to accomplish such a move. They had even left the membership rolls, the addresses of contacts at the daughter clubs. Even before he dared resurface, he sent Eléanore for the addresses. After he had written to every one of the hundreds of Jacobin clubs with her help and that of her younger sister Elisabeth—most clubs thrilled to receive a personal note from the Incorruptible himself—only four clubs defected to the Feuillants. How he hated that appellation, “the Incorruptible”: as if not to be bought and sold was such an unusual characteristic as to warrant public note.

 

Page 250

                Lately his [Robespierre’s] life felt calmer. In the Duplays’ cozy home with the hammering in the courtyard, the smell of sawdust, the scent of good simple cooking, the voices of the women of the household, he was close to happy. Even when meetings ran long into the night, Eléanore would be sitting up to open the gate for him. If Eléanore stayed late at the Club, Madame or Elisabeth would wait.

                […] Max also enjoyed the company of the painter David. He had never entertained before, but the Duplays encouraged him to invite friends and colleagues. The Duplays provided a core group for singing, readings, excursions, walks. Eléanore would sketch his friends and of course himself. David thought she had talent. Max was pleased by this evidence that she was a genuine artist, but more pleased that whatever she was doing, she would stop if he needed something.

 

Page 253

                They [Robespierre and Marat] were not alone in the room. Charlotte and Eléanore were the silent spectators, along with Simonne Évrard. Marat had not bothered with a legal ceremony, but everybody considered Simonne his wife. How did Marat dare take a wife? Marat and he would be killed in the Revolution; they would both be martyred. One of Max’s chief fears if he married or had children was that they would be put to death because of him. Yet Marat had not hesitated to take Simonne. He would have liked to discuss that choice with Marat, but doubted if Marat would appreciate the inquiry. Further he was not about to bring up the matter in front of his own women. Charlotte was already jealous of Eléanore and told him every two days Eléanore was trying to trap him into marriage: as if he wouldn’t have married her quite willingly, married her whole family, if he dared. He could not imagine how Marat, who had lived as a hunted felon, had risked taking Simonne as his own. Simonne was Max’s idea of a good woman. Probably he liked her rather better than he liked Marat.

 

Page 272

FIFTY

Max

(Summer 1792)

 

                Max had lost much of his popularity because of his harsh criticism of the war. Now he was subjected to a war at home. Charlotte had taken a dislike to all the Duplays except Elisabeth, with whom she went about everywhere arm in arm. Charlotte particularly resented Mme Duplay and Eléanore. “I can’t believe how she invades your privacy. The girl is shameless.”

                “She goes nowhere I do not wish her to go.”

                “Max, she comes into your bedroom as if she were your mistress!”

                “She’s in my confidence. She acts on my behalf. She carries messages for me and reports back.”

                “It’s not proper.”

                “Would you prefer I marry her, Charlotte? Would that make Eléanore’s working with me proper in your eyes?”

                “Max, don’t joke! You can’t marry a carpenter’s daughter. Really!”

                “I should think marrying the daughter of an honest artisan would be most appropriate. Unless you think people would suspect I was marrying her for money. After all, they’re so much better off than we are.”

                “Max, you can’t marry her! And as for money, if you wanted to make money now, I know you could do it. For instance—”

                “Enough!” He glared at her. She was carefully dressed, yet somehow her appearance always slightly annoyed him. There was a family resemblance. He was careful about his own appearance, but seeing his fussiness and his fastidiousness writ large in Charlotte and turned into open and foundationless vanity was not a boost to his self-esteem. He wanted to thunder at her to shut up, but she would weep. “Charlotte, I am not about to marry anyone. You can rest easy on that count. I can’t afford a wife, financially or morally. I am wedded to the Revolution.”

                “You could make a dozen advantageous matches. I see how the women look at you. Even the rich ladies. They make eyes at you.”

                “I’m not a plate of hors d’oeuvres. Have you nothing better to think about? Why don’t you assist Madame Duplay with the preserving of peaches? I love peach conserve.”

                It was no gift he was inflicting on Mme Duplay, but he had to get Charlotte out of his hair in order to do any work. How happy he had been in the house of the Duplays before he imported Charlotte.

 

Page 303

                Charlotte took this opportunity to make her demands known. She adored Elisabeth and went everywhere with her, but she detested Mme Duplay and Eléanore. She insisted that now both brothers were elected to the Convention, they should live according to their class and be able to entertain properly. Max couldn’t see anything wrong with the way he entertained now, chez Duplay. But Charlotte hounded him. “You went off and left us in Arras all these years. I devoted my life to you. Who’ll ever want to marry me now? I’m forced to live as a guest in another woman’s house. I want to make you happy, Max, I want us to live together as a family—not as lodges in the house of a carpenter and his scheming daughter!”

                Max let himself be dragged off to an apartment with Charlotte and Augustin in the Rue Saint Florentine [Saint-Florentin]. At once he began to miss the Duplays. He liked having the Duplay women around him. They saw to his every need quietly, unlike Charlotte who trumpeted everything she did. He missed Eléanore’s sleek, dark presence, her eyes upon him, her surprisingly strong hands kneading his shoulders when he was tense, rubbing his temples when his head ached. He could not bear to be touched—except by her. Her touch soothed him. Her touch drew the tension from him. He could not say that to Charlotte, who was always shocked when she discovered Eléanore in his room.

                Now he never saw Eléanore except from a distance at the Jacobin Club. At least there he escaped his sister. Eléanore would be in the gallery and when a speaker bored him, not as infrequent an event as he could have wished, he tilted his chair slightly so that he could see her.

 

Page 322

                Max let himself be borne off by cab to the Duplays. His room was just as he had left it. He crawled into bed, Madame helping him undress. Soon he was sound asleep with the smell of sawdust and good cooking lulling him. He slept fourteen hours. When he awoke, he knew instantly where he was. He felt weak but complete. Charlotte was a leech: he must not allow her to suck away his energy with her constant complaints, her egotistical maundering. He looked around the little blue room with the white dimity curtains that Mme Duplay had sewn. He looked at the drawings on the walls that Eléanore had made of him speaking a the Jacobin Club, relaxing at the Duplay table, the oil painting of him with Blount [Brount] at his feet. He had not taken all his books when he left. Secretly he had determined to come back. He was not here for a week or to recover his health. Too bad Augustin couldn’t move out too. Max could not give up his life to his sister. He would happily support her. But he would not live with her again.

                He had dressed and was sitting at his desk drinking coffee and studying his notes on the Convention delegates, when he heard Eléanore’s light step running upstairs. Then he heard her pause outside his door. For about two minutes nothing happened. He smiled. She was trying to guess if he was awake. He moved a few papers and let his chair creak. She responded with a tap on the door.

                “Come,” he said. He had not seen her except in the gallery of the Jacobin Club. She had not come to visit on the Rue Saint Florentine, and all of them knew the reason: Charlotte hated her.

                She came in swiftly and paused in the middle of the room. Then she swept forward and knelt before him, putting her hand lightly on his knee. “Will you stay?”

                He nodded.

                Her face tightened into a grimace and then went stoical. Finally she let herself smile. Another woman would have wept. Her eyes, dark, enormous, fixed on him. They gleamed. Her adoration was powerful but controlled.

                She said, “I don’t want to be separated from you again.”

                “That is not always under my control. But I won’t voluntarily leave you.”

                “Are you very weak?”

                “I’m almost back to normal. Tomorrow I’ll return to the Convention.”

                She rose and stood before him. “I want to be yours.” She was gazing at the floor, then made herself meet his gaze. She grew visibly pink. Her hands clenched before her.

                He was silent. He felt a clutch of fear. Yet he also felt calm. He had already accepted her gift of self. He understood that the Duplays regarded Eléanore as belonging to him. “I can’t marry you.”

                She nodded. “Your family doesn’t approve.”

                “I don’t care what Charlotte thinks, and Augustin likes you. I’m head of my lame family. That is not the determining factor.” He rose and walked to the window. Outside in the courtyard Blount was barking at the saw. “By the way, have you noticed that your sister and Philippe Lebas [Le Bas] have fallen in love? They should marry. I just defeated an organized attempt to destroy me. There will be many such attempts. One will succeed. I’ll be assassinated or I’ll fall to a better laid conspiracy. I will never see forty. Do you understand?”

                “Yes. I see. I understand. I want to share your fate.”

                “If I marry you, you certainly will. But I don’t want to die like an Eastern tyrant, surrounded by my dog and my wife and my friends, all lying on the same pyre. I want you to survive me. I want you all to survive me. Tell the truth about me when I’m gone. But when I’m taken, when they finally manage to kill me, I want to die alone. I don’t want to pull anybody down with me. That would make it unendurable.”

                “I don’t want to survive you.”

                “Eléanore, obey me. I want you to live. I want to leave you all in this house intact as I found you.”

                “I will never be as you found me. I wasn’t fully alive then.” She put her hands on his shoulders, nervously but with strength. Her face was close to his. “My life is yours. I would give it up to you in an instant.”

                “As my wife, as my widow, you’d be vulnerable. You’d die because you bore my name. So I can’t give you my name. And I can’t have offspring. I can’t have a son to carry on my name that so many will curse.”

                “I can promise you that I will not bear children.”

                “You say that now. But I won’t change my mind. I couldn’t endure putting a woman I care for through that. My mother died … that way. Her screams echoed through the house for three days. I can’t.”

                “I promise you, if you will let me love you, I won’t bear you any children. I know what to do. I’ve asked. Do you think I don’t know how you feel? I know what you feel as soon as you do.”

                “You always do.” He smiled slightly. “Suppose you should become pregnant in spite of these precautions which you and I would take?”

                “You’d never know it. No one would ever know.” She moved closer. She wore a flower perfume, almost herbal. Lemon verbena. It was slightly astringent, like Eléanore. He had been with only two women in his life, and they had been far more experienced than he. He was sure Eléanore was not. He seemed to be agreeing to go to bed with her, without having a clear idea how he would set about doing so. He put his hands on her upper arms. She felt firm. She was used to doing housework and hauling her canvases through the streets. At his touch, she surged forward against him. Her mouth pressed against his. He felt himself stir. He was almost surprised, but then, this was Eléanore who belonged to him already.

                She led him to the bed, and he realized as she undressed him that she did not expect passion from him. She would provide that. She was inexperienced, as he had suspected, but eager. She ran her hands over his body, she adored him. Her touch was pleasant. He never minded her touching him, he who could not endure the touch of anyone else. He lay with his eyes lightly closed as she caressed his body, experimenting, judging from his breath what pleased him.

                He sat up and turned her on her back, spreading her legs. She was thin but womanly. He was glad she was not fleshy. As he placed his member against her, he said, “This may hurt.” He hesitated.

                “No. I’ve been stretching myself. I knew you would be upset by blood.”

                He thrust into her with a great sigh. “No, I don’t like blood.” It was very easy with her. He could tell she was a little frightened by also happy. He withdrew just before he came. He would tell Madame and Monsieur that he and Eléanore were engaged. That would satisfy them. And he had placed Eléanore’s body squarely between Charlotte and himself. She could not use guilt on him again to make him set up gloomy housekeeping with her. He had provided himself with an obligation. It would be his secret, but as far as he was concerned, Eléanore was his wife. He was married to the whole Duplay family through her flesh. He anticipated that it would be a satisfying marriage.

Comments

[maelipstick.livejournal.com]

Sorry, I clicked reply too soon in my rage. She also, marvelously manages to get Robespierre's age at death wrong. Way to go girl! Don't let those pesky facts get in the way!

Simple answer: they don't. More complicated but more accurate answer: some don't, most probably just haven't thought through the implications of their positions.

Yes, although I do think this is a rather lazy position on behalf of people who are essentially paid to think. I'm quite understanding of the fact that most people do not have the time or the spare brain cells to think through the realities of revolutionary politics, but if you are a historian or an established novelist, you are bloody well paid to think through the consequences. If you don't, you fail.

I think self-interest may also play a part here. I do remember maelicia saying in her essay on the Robespierre!Terror thing that age and acceptance in the establishment does flabby up one's political instincts and I think that point may well be pertinent here. Most people are scared of questioning a system they have done well out of.

There's also the warm fuzzy idealist stance - I think put best by Danton's apotheosis in La Revolution Francaise, the idea that 'we love the Revolution but we deplore the violence' which, well, yes indeed apart from a few reactionary loons, yep, that's about everyone agreeing. I'm fairly sure even Robespierre would get out of the hot tub of blood of innocents he was rolling around in with Saint-Just to agree. The major problem being what the heck do you do if you love the Revolution but other people don't? Do you defend it, or do you let it slip away? I admit, how far you go to defend the Revolution is a very fraught issue, but it is one that most people don't seem to want to engage with. They are just "Oh, the revolution was wonderful and we like Mirabeau/Danton/Desmoulins because they loved it but didn't want to have the terror." Which is a fine point, but a bit like saying, I'd really love sweets if they didn't rot my teeth.

there was a lot of Freudian nonsense and the seemingly requisite Robespierre belittling

Robespierre spends more time than is seemly on the psychoanalyst's couch, no? I'm not a historian, but I have read a fair amount of books on history and Freud seems to be called in far more frequently in Robespierre's case than almost anyone else.

With Robespierre, surveillance comes from the people and is directed, quite openly, at the government; with Fouché surveillance comes from the government, or more specifically from the police, and is directed at the people (secretly, of course)

Can I have a moment for the coolness of Robespierre. I have nothing more coherent to say.

Now, this may seem like a pretty obvious point, but how many people leave it at "Robespierre and Fouché were both Revolutionaries who thought surveillance was important, clearly we can safely group them together"

Rather like those people who confuse freedom to consume with freedom to be, no? All surveillance must be bad - and therefore we let the government right off the hook.

[estellacat.livejournal.com]

Well, there goes my point on Robespierre's age at death. XD;

Oh, for people who's job it is to write about the Revolution, it's absolutely inexcusable. But for everyone else, I understand the temptation not to think about it, or to, as you put it, want the candy without the tooth-rotting. And that's the problem, I hate it because it makes it so difficult to convince them to consider the Revolution and especially figures like Robespierre in a more critical fashion, but I understand why they want to cling to it. It's so much easier, after all, to accept the narratives you're given; to praise the early Revolution and unequivocally condemn the Terror.

People who have essentially been corrupted by the comforts of their elevated place in society make use of this too, of course; not everyone who says "I'll have the Revolution without the violence, please" is in good faith but merely lazy. It's fairly easy to use that view as a cover.

All this is not to say that the opposite view is exactly ideal either. I mean, I would hardly agree with I-can't-remember-which-reactionary, who claimed that if we want the Declaration of Rights, we must also be willing to drink the (probably apochryphal) glass of blood with Mlle Sombreuil. But surely there arne many happy mediums between the two. (Even if it remains almost impossible to even begin a rational conversation on the subject, even with otherwise rational people. People tend to shut down the moment they here "Terror" or "Robespierre" or even just "French Revolution" in general. It's a shame.)

The Freudian analysis of Robespierre is truly what made me hate the use of Freud in history. (Well, that and Lynn Hunt's argument that in executing the king, the revolutionaries were just following the script of Totem and Taboo.)

I love Robespierre's notion of surveillance. I think we need more of it. All surveillance is not equivalent, after all: with Fouché's variety you get a police state; with Robespierre's you get democracy, as it should operate.

As for some people's notions of "freedom"... That's a whole other rant.