 | Voices from the Mountains |  |
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THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS.
A FRAGMENT.
“The Girondins spent the last night of their captivity in the
great dungeon—that Hall of Death. The tribunal had ordered
that the still warm corpse of Valazé should be taken back to the
prison, carried on the same cart with his accomplices to the
place of execution, and buried with them ... The gendarmes
placed the body in a corner of the prison. The Girondins, one
after the other, kissed the heroic hand of their friend. They
covered his face with his mantle. ‘To morrow!’ said they to
the corpse; and they gathered their strength for the coming day.
It was near midnight. The deputy Bailleul, proscribed like them,
but concealed in Paris, had promised to send them from without,
on the day of their judgment, a last repast—of triumph or of death,
according as they might be acquitted or condemned. By the help
of a friend, he kept his word. The funeral supper was spread in
the great dungeon. Costly viands, rare wines, flowers, and lights
covered the oak table of the prison ... The meal lasted till
the dawn of day. Vergniaud, seated near the centre of the
table, presided with the same calm dignity which he had
preserved during the night of the 10th of August, while presiding
over the Convention. The guests ate and drank with sobriety
—merely to recruit their strength. Their discourse was grave
and solemn, though not sad. Many of them spoke of the
immortality of the soul and expressed their belief in a future
state.”
—Lamartine's History of the
Girondins.
“The last night of the Girondins was sublime. Vergniaud
was provided with poison. He threw it away that he might die
with his friends. They took a last meal together, at which they
were by turns merry, serious, and eloquent. Brissot and
Gensonné were grave and pensive. Vergniaud spoke of expiring
liberty in the noblest terms of regret, and of the destination of
man with persuasive eloquence. Ducos repeated verses which
he had composed in prison; and they all joined in singing
hymns to France and Liberty.”
—Thiers's History of the French
Revolution.
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VERGNIAUD.
Never despair of goodness: men are bad,
But have been worse. The badness shall die out;
The goodness, like the thistle-down, shall float,
Bearing a germ beneath its tiny car—
A germ predestined to become a tree,
To fall on fruitful soil, and on its boughs
Bear seed enough to stock the universe.
Never despair of Freedom: though we die
In cruel martyrdom most undeserved,
What matters it, if Truth survive our bones?
No my dear brothers, we shall not despair,
Now or hereafter, for ourselves or men;
For we are sorrow-proof; our souls have borne
All the worst ills that can afflict the just.
We can sit down in strength of virtuous will,
And dare all malice and all power of men
To add one mental pang to bodily death,
Or rob us of the smallest privilege
That appertains to our humanity.
They may manure their gardens with our flesh,
And decompose our scaffolding of bones,
But cannot harm us, cannot touch the I,
The Thou, that dwells in clay receptacle,
Vast, awful, inaccessible, alone,
And indestructible as earth or heaven.
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Would we could summon our poor Valaze
To visit us, and his forsaken corpse
Which bears us now such mournful company!
What secrets he could tell us if he might!
Perchance even now he listens to our words,
And shares our sorrows as he shared before.
SILLERY.
I do propose that in a solemn pledge
Over this wine we bear our love to him—
The soul of Valazé, if soul he have,
Outliving its poor garb of flesh and bone,
Or I, or thou, or any piece of dust
That walks on legs and calls itself a man;
Here's to his memory!—and if he live,
May he be happy in the light of heaven!
BRISSOT.
Dear Valazé! 'tis pleasant to my soul,
For soul I have, coeval with its God,
To think that he is with us at this hour;
Fill'd with the virtuous joy that shall be ours,
Soon as the bloody knife has done its work
In opening the door 'twixt earth and heaven,
And letting us go free.
LASOURCE.
Free of the earth perhaps, but free as gods?
To love, to know, to labour, to aspire?
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Bliss infinite and yet a bliss complete,
Sum of all hopes and crown of all desire.
I would not pass into a stagnant heaven,
For ever singing psalms and saying prayers.
Ah, no! the heaven that my spirit craves,
If place it be, and not a state of mind,
Is place for progress—infinite as God.
There is no good but effort. Paradise,
With nothing to be done, would be to me
Worse than the blackest Hell that Dante drew,
Or English Milton in his awful song.
DUCOS.
What work wouldst do? Wouldst like to strive in Heaven
With Robespierres or Dantons? or wouldst go
Down to the other place to battle there?
LASOURCE.
As for the other place, there is no Hell
But that which dwells in the ungodly soul—
A Hell eternal as the soul itself.
But for the virtuous and aspiring mind
There is no task more adequate to Heaven
Than war with Error. Light was only made
To change the alien Darkness to itself;
Love but to conquer and extinguish Hate.
CARRA.
I have two doubts; but to my tranquil mind
Each is a comfort. If perchance I go
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I feel that God is good, and that this self
Shall not be damn'd, whatever bigots feign,
But shall enjoy the infinitude of love.
And if I go not hence—if I am this—
This bag of joints, and arteries, and flesh—
Nothing besides—and consciousness expires
When the lungs cease their functions, and the heart
Sends to the pulse the living stream no more,
There is nor disappointment, grief, nor pain,
In thought of nothingness. I've lived my life,
And can go down to Death without a pang,
And think annihilation bliss indeed.
DUCOS.
I not. I take an interest in things,
And would be glad to learn the fate of France,
For whose dear sake we die to-morrow morn;
And if the “incorruptible” corrupt
And bloody Robespierre shall 'scape the toils
He sets for us. I should be glad to know
How long the savage hounds that lap our blood
Shall offer up such holocausts to Hate,
As we shall be ere shines another sun.
Nor that alone;—I should rejoice to see
What great new poets shall arise with Time,
What famous plays and mighty play-actors
Shall draw the tears from lovely ladies' eyes,
Or dimple their sweet cheeks to heavenly smiles;
What new discoveries shall yet be made,
Greater than printing or than gunpowder;
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And young girls' petticoats a century hence;
How long the French Republic shall endure,
And whether any Cromwell shall arise
To turn our troubles to his own account;
Or, worst of all, whether the Capet race
Shall mount the throne again, to play the fool,
And drive humanity a century back;
And whether Catholic and Protestant
Shall hate each other in the days to come,
And do foul murder for the love of God,
As they have done since Luther was a priest.
FONFRÈDE.
And so should I; but not alone to know.
To see the miseries of this poor world,
Without the power to aid in their relief,
Would be indeed as bad as pitchy hell,
And worms that die not, and tormenting fiends.
No, no, Ducos; if we return at all,
We shall return refresh'd, and play a part.
VERGNIAUD.
Keep to thy thought, Fonfrède, and lose it not;
The soul, partaker of Divinity,
Must be partaker of Infinity—
Must know alike the secrets of all space,
And of this little grain of rolling sand
That we are born upon. Yes, we shall see,
Clear as a book, the riddle of the world;
We shall repeat the watchword of the stars;
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As full upon us burst the harmonies
Of rolling planets, systems, firmaments.
The key-note of the music shall be plain,
And we shall strike it whenso'er we will,
And add to infinite Joy, Love infinite.
FAUCHET.
If we are worthy. Not to every soul
Such love and joy as thou depicturest.
Freed from its earthly shell, th'eternal mind
Must struggle there, as it has struggled here,
Upward, still upward, with incessant toil,
To make itself partaker of the bliss,
That in a widening circle God hath spread
Through His ineffable eternity.
SILLERY.
Is talking, struggling? For I trust, dear friend,
There will be talking in the other world,
And that we twenty-one now supping here,
Discoursing mistily of earth and heaven,
Shall have a nobler banquet in the sky,
And better talk in better company,
To-morrow night;—banquet of heavenly fruits,
Ambrosia, nectar, manna, wine of gods,
And converse with the mighty men of yore:—
Socrates, Plato, Buddha, Mahomet,
Homer, Anacreon, Euripides,
Ovid and Dante, Shakspeare and Corneille,
With Cæsar, Antony, and Constantine,
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Eve, and Semiramis, and Joan of Arc,
And a whole host of the undying dead—
Sages, philosophers, and ancient kings,
Bards, statesmen, actors, dancing girls, and wits,
And most beloved, our brother Valazé,
Gone as a herald to announce the doom
Of three times seven unconquerable souls,
Coming to join him ere the world goes round,
Or the next twilight deepens into day.
LASOURCE.
What ails our friend, our brother Vergniaud?
His gaze is fix'd upon vacuity—
He hears us not—he looks, but sees us not.
Kind sleep has thrown her mantle over him,
And in his slumber flow unbidden tears.
FONFRÈDE.
I could weep with him. Here we sit and talk
Of heaven and hell, unloosing knotty points,
Or grappling with them, but to make the coil
A worse entanglement—forgetting France,
And those who love us. I've not shed a tear,
But I could weep a flood, and in each drop
Pay tribute to my own humanity,
Which blushes for me, that I should forget,
In these last hours, my few, my faithful friends;
And she, the dear companion of my soul—
My love—my better life—that prays for me
In solitude and sorrow; or, perchance,
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The tears are gathering in my eyes for her,
And they must flow, or make my heart a wreck.
VERGNIAUD.
Let the flood burst: tears are the wine of grief,
And will inspire thee more than sparkling Ai
Can stir the pulses of a bacchanal.
I crave no pardon for the tears I've shed,
The latest luxury that I shall taste.
In one short minute I have lived a life,
Felt all my joys, and suffer'd all my woes;
Loved all my loves, hoped all my hopes, despair'd
All the despairs that ever dull'd my sense;
Spoken my speeches, stirr'd a listening land
In name of freedom and the rights of men,
Ending this cosmorama of my days
By weeping on the breast of her I love
The tears you saw me shed—the tears whose flow
Refresh'd my heated brain, and bore me back
To consciousness of now, which I had lost.
GENSONNÉ.
Even so with me. I have been living lives
In minutes since our festival began.
Aye as the sands grows scanty in the glass
Of unrelenting Time, the falling grain
Exceeds in value all that went before,
And years of feeling load the back of each.
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I roam'd in meadows, gathering violets,
I bathed my tiny feet in running streams,
I strutted o'er the sward with martial drum,
I conn'd my painful lesson in the school,
I nestled in my little sister's breast,
And fell asleep, my arms entwining her.
And then I grew into a thoughtful boy,
Full of high projects and intense desires—
Passion and folly, wisdom and romance,
Ruling my soul by turns. Another grain
Dropp'd in the glass, and, lo! I was a man
Fill'd with ambition and desire of fame,
Raising my voice above the popular din,
To swell the rallying cry of ceaseless war
To royal tyranny and feudal wrong.
Another grain dropp'd through, and I was wed,
And lived long years of bridal happiness.
I built my house upon a hill; I plann'd
Gardens and orchards, parks and sloping lawns,
And fled from clash of modern politics
To ancient lore and calm philosophy.
Another grain, and all the visions fled.
I braved false judges in the judgment-seat,
Dishonouring judgment and the name of man;
Defied them to their teeth, and dared to die
And leave my fate a legacy to Time.
All this, and more, unwinding like a scroll,
Has pass'd before me at this feast of death,
Even as I talk'd, and drank, and laugh'd with you.
A double consciousness—an added self
Swathed me all o'er, as glory swathes a saint.
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Thy visions have been brave, dear Gensonné.
I have been thinking of my mistresses,
Eulalie, Marie, Gabrielle, Fifine—
Who loved me first—who last—and who the best;
And whether one of them to-morrow morn
Will give a last and solitary thought
To me, a man defrauded of my head,
Having no property in my own life,
And lost to them for loving liberty,
And daring to interpret for myself
What meant the name.
SILLERY.
Didst love the four at once? or two by two?
Or didst thou take the darlings one by one?
Or love this liberty still more than them?
In either case why should they weep for thee,
So loose and fickle in thy preference?
And yet 'tis sweet to know a woman sighs
For our distresses, and would share them all,
If sharing would relieve. Fill up again—
We grow lugubrious. I, that ever laugh'd,
Crutch-ridden and decrepit as I am,
At nightly comedy, and daily farce,
Play'd in all places—forum, palace, street,
In church and tavern, attic or saloon—
Must not be tragic, ev'n though dungeon-walls
Shut from my vision that stupendous farce,
The rolling earth. Fill to the brim your cups.
We'll toast our friends, our wives, our mistresses.
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God bless the maid whose image fills my soul,
The incarnation of all purity—
All modesty—all loveliness—all grace,
My own heart's partner—my betrothed wife;—
Never to see me in this mortal state—
Never to these pale, faithful lips of mine
To give the answering kiss of plighted truth!
God shower His blessings on her! May she live,
Unscath'd, in all the perils of the time,
And love of me be thought no crime in her
By those who wield the destinies of France,
And slay the innocent!
FAUCHET.
Amen, Amen—for her, and all we love!
DUCOS.
We grow too serious. If we ransack thus
The stores of memory for joys bygone,
For hopes decay'd, and loves for ever lost,
We shall unman ourselves, and yield our breath
Like love-sick maidens, who in deep decline,
Aye prattle prettily of moonlit seas,
Fresh flowers, green meads, and shady forest-walks,
To the last moment of their artless lives.
In my philosophy there are no tears,
No sighs, no groans, no useless fond regrets,
But a stout heart, and laughter to the last.
(Sings.)
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THE CAP AND BELLS.
Did you ever trust a friend,And when cheated trust him more?
Ever seek to gain your end,
Knocking at a rich man's door?
Do you trust your Doris fair,
When her tale of love she tells?
You deserve the cap you wear,
Jingle, jangle—shake your bells!
Think you that the men are wise
Who embark in public strife?
Or their judgment do you prize
Who for country risk their life?
Truth's existence could you swear?
Or affirm where honour dwells?
You deserve the cap you wear,
Jingle, jangle—shake your bells!
FONFRÈDE.Who embark in public strife?
Or their judgment do you prize
Who for country risk their life?
Truth's existence could you swear?
Or affirm where honour dwells?
You deserve the cap you wear,
Jingle, jangle—shake your bells!
The voice is good—the singer, my good friend—
The manner perfect, but the song itself
A baseless libel. Try again, Ducos,
And give us something in a nobler mood.
We may not die with falsehood on our tongues,
And gibes and sneers curvetting on our lips.
DUCOS.
If like a swan, I must expire in song,
Hear my death anthem. Join it if you will.
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THE GREY OWL.
The grey owl sat on the belfry-leads,
And look'd o'er the Seine to the place of heads,
Over the Seine to the Place de Grève.
The winds were sighing, the trees replying;
The moonlight stream'd o'er the abbey-nave,
Over the house-tops silently lying
White as the mist when the morn is new;
And aye the owl, so solemn of look,
The speckled grey of his plumage shook,
And screech'd in the turret—tu wheet, tu whoo!
And look'd o'er the Seine to the place of heads,
Over the Seine to the Place de Grève.
The winds were sighing, the trees replying;
The moonlight stream'd o'er the abbey-nave,
Over the house-tops silently lying
White as the mist when the morn is new;
And aye the owl, so solemn of look,
The speckled grey of his plumage shook,
And screech'd in the turret—tu wheet, tu whoo!
Clear and full the moonlight swam
Around the towers of Notre Dame,
And tinged on the Grève the guillotine—
The winds were sighing, the trees replying—
When a cry was heard the gusts between,
A moan for the dead, and not for the dying,
Dolefully sounding the faubourgs through.
'Twas the howl of a dog for his master slain,
And the grey owl flapp'd his wings again,
And screech'd in the turret—tu wheet, tu whoo!
Around the towers of Notre Dame,
And tinged on the Grève the guillotine—
The winds were sighing, the trees replying—
When a cry was heard the gusts between,
A moan for the dead, and not for the dying,
Dolefully sounding the faubourgs through.
'Twas the howl of a dog for his master slain,
And the grey owl flapp'd his wings again,
And screech'd in the turret—tu wheet, tu whoo!
He flapp'd his wings and away he lurch'd
Over the Seine, and, resting, perch'd
On the high cross-beam of the guillotine-top.
The winds were sighing, the trees replying—
The tail of the howling hound did drop
As he saw, through the pallid moonlight flying,
The doleful bird loom into his view;
He ceased his moan and slunk away,
And the old owl rustled his pinions grey,
And screech'd from the scaffold—tu wheet, tu whoo!
Over the Seine, and, resting, perch'd
On the high cross-beam of the guillotine-top.
The winds were sighing, the trees replying—
The tail of the howling hound did drop
As he saw, through the pallid moonlight flying,
The doleful bird loom into his view;
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And the old owl rustled his pinions grey,
And screech'd from the scaffold—tu wheet, tu whoo!
“Hurra!” quoth he, as the creature ran;
“What right have dogs to moan for man,
Or of love like this to make pretence?”
The winds were sighing, the trees replying.
“Such canine truth is a foul offence;
For if every fool on the guillotine dying,
Had a friend like this to howl and rue,
Their noise would drown the people's roar
When it tasted blood and clamour'd for more.”
And the grey owl screech'd—tu wheet, tu whoo!
“What right have dogs to moan for man,
Or of love like this to make pretence?”
The winds were sighing, the trees replying.
“Such canine truth is a foul offence;
For if every fool on the guillotine dying,
Had a friend like this to howl and rue,
Their noise would drown the people's roar
When it tasted blood and clamour'd for more.”
And the grey owl screech'd—tu wheet, tu whoo!
“I wot that to-morrow's sun shall see
The death of a goodly company—
I trust no dogs will howl for them.”
The winds were sighing, the trees replying.
“Two-and-twenty we condemn—
One has escaped from the shame of dying,
Open'd a door and glided through;
Yet two-and-twenty heads in all
Under the bloody knife shall fall.”
And the grey owl screech'd—tu wheet, tu whoo!
The death of a goodly company—
I trust no dogs will howl for them.”
The winds were sighing, the trees replying.
“Two-and-twenty we condemn—
One has escaped from the shame of dying,
Open'd a door and glided through;
Yet two-and-twenty heads in all
Under the bloody knife shall fall.”
And the grey owl screech'd—tu wheet, tu whoo!
“Many shall follow them day by day,
The harvest-time shall not delay—
The headsman's harvest, so ripe, so red.”
The winds were sighing, the trees replying—
“I know the name of each sentenced head—
Danton, the harsh and death-defying—
All his friends that think him true—
Brutal and greedy Père Duchêsne,
With all his comrades, all his train.”
And the grey owl screech'd—tu wheet, to whoo!
The harvest-time shall not delay—
The headsman's harvest, so ripe, so red.”
The winds were sighing, the trees replying—
“I know the name of each sentenced head—
Danton, the harsh and death-defying—
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Brutal and greedy Père Duchêsne,
With all his comrades, all his train.”
And the grey owl screech'd—tu wheet, to whoo!
“And after a while a greater still
Shall tread the road, shall climb the hill,
Amid the shouts of the changeful crowd”—
The winds were sighing, the trees replying.
“And shall headless sleep in a bloody shroud.
Hated in life, accursed in dying,
He shall meet the doom of the twenty-two;
And his name shall live the world to scare—
'Tis Robespierre! 'tis Robespierre!”
And the grey owl screech'd—tu wheet, tu whoo!
Shall tread the road, shall climb the hill,
Amid the shouts of the changeful crowd”—
The winds were sighing, the trees replying.
“And shall headless sleep in a bloody shroud.
Hated in life, accursed in dying,
He shall meet the doom of the twenty-two;
And his name shall live the world to scare—
'Tis Robespierre! 'tis Robespierre!”
And the grey owl screech'd—tu wheet, tu whoo!
Who is your owl, Ducos?—the embodied soul
Of Marat visiting the earth again?
Whoe'er he be, his prophecies are safe,
And through the glooms of Time his eyes can see
About as clearly as some men's, I know.
Tis a brave bird, Ducos, and speaks the truth,
'Although his voice is harsh, his truth a fear,
And deeds of blood his too familiar thought.
LASOURCE.
Behold the dawn: it breaks upon the world.
How at this hour the oceans sport their waves,
And turn their frothy ringlets to the light,
And all the peaks of Alps and Apennines
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The silver, and the purple, and the grey,
And all the glory of its majesty.
The ancient forests shake their lordly boughs,
And pay obeisance to the rising morn;
The green fields smile, dew glistening, in its face;
The distant towns and villages awake,
The milk-maid sings, the cow-boy winds his horn,
And lowing cattle climb the sunward hills.
The twin grey towers of ancient Nôtre Dame
Are gilded with a smile, like hoary age
Relaxing to behold an infant's play.
Ay, even the gory guillotine receives
The splendour of the morning, and the slave
Drinks of the sunshine freely as the free.
What beauty compasses the teeming world!
What hideous spectacles ungrateful men
Throw in its face, to tire it of itself!
Beautiful morn! my blessing upon day!
SILLERY.
And mine—if worth acceptance. But behold,
The gaoler comes—our feast is at an end;
The death-bell tolls. Time fades to nothingness;
The hideous dream of life draws to its close;
The morning of Eternity is near.
Let us arise and wake like healthful men.
FAUCHET.
May God have mercy on us, and forgive
Our enemies, as we forgive them now.
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Farewell, dear brothers—farewell, friends beloved.
The victims of a fearful tyranny
We die, but leave our names an heritage
That France shall wear, and boast of to the world.
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