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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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041789
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04178900.062
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1990-09-17
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BOOKS, Page 74The Rhythm of RetributionBy Otto Friedrich
CITIZENS: A CHRONICLE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
by Simon Schama
Knopf; 948 pages; $29.95
This extraordinary history of the French Revolution begins with
a three-story-high plaster elephant standing guard in the Place de
la Bastille. Commissioned by the triumphant Emperor Napoleon,
eventually to be recast in the bronze of captured cannons, the
elephant was designed to make Parisians forget their revolutionary
past and dream of an imperial future. Its real destiny -- like the
question of what to remember -- proved quite different. "By 1830,
when revolution revisited Paris, the elephant was in an advanced
state of decomposition," writes Harvard historian Simon Schama.
"One tusk had dropped off, and the other was reduced to a powdery
stump. Its body was black from rain and soot and its eyes had sunk,
beyond all natural resemblance, into the furrows and pockmarks of
its large, eroded head."
Such a grand beginning inspires confidence that we are in the
hands of a master storyteller, and Schama's epic history richly
fulfills that promise. This saga of revolt and revenge may at first
seem somewhat familiar, for it has long been one of the great
narrative legends of modern time, told and retold by Burke,
Tocqueville, Carlyle and others. We already know -- don't we? --
about the dim-witted King Louis XVI, about Queen Marie Antoinette's
supposedly saying "Let them eat cake," and the ragged mobs cheering
as the bloodied guillotine rises and falls in its awful rhythm of
retribution.
Schama's splendid recounting soon convinces us, however, that
much of what we thought we knew is wrong, a collection of Hollywood
versions of 19th century romances: Leslie Howard as "that demmed
elusive Pimpernel," or Ronald Colman doing a "far, far better
thing" by accepting the fate prescribed by Dickens in A Tale of Two
Cities. Schama's reality is very different from the legends.
For example, the famous storming of the Bastille prison -- of
which the French are noisily celebrating the 200th anniversary this
summer -- was hardly a storming at all. The outnumbered and
ill-supplied defenders (whose oppressed prisoners consisted of just
two lunatics, four forgers and one aristocratic ne'er-do-well put
away by his family) finally surrendered when they saw themselves
confronting the rioters' artillery, which included a silver-inlaid
cannon originally given to France by the King of Siam. And the
commandant of the Bastille, who had tried to avoid further
bloodshed, was subsequently hacked to death, his head stuck on a
pike and paraded through the streets.
This reassembling and rearranging of historical detail is
brilliantly successful: Schama's tale is vivid, dramatic,
thought-provoking. Yet such is the current academic vogue for
bloodless and pseudoscientific historiography that the author
repeatedly feels a need to apologize for what he somewhat
disingenuously calls a "mischievously old-fashioned piece of
storytelling." If Schama's portrait of the revolution is often
surprising in its closeup details, however, it is no less so in
coloring the background imagery of the French society being
overturned.
In Schama's version, the ancien regime (a pejorative term
coined after the revolution) was hardly just the moribund feudal
anachronism of literary legend. Though France's economic growth was
less spectacular than that of Britain, its foreign trade, mining
and textile industries were all booming. Moreover, many new
enterprises were run by aristocrats, many of whom were self-made
men who had bought or earned their titles. The French upper
classes, writes Schama, were eager to push France into
technological modernity, and there was an almost Jeffersonian
optimism in the way they welcomed the convening of the
Estates-General and the creation of a constitutional monarchy. It
was the poor, by contrast, who resisted such novelties as free
trade and religious toleration.
What went so horribly wrong between the hopeful beginnings in
1789 and the terror of 1793? Many things, as usual. Some of the
worst weather in decades ruined several harvests and inspired a
dangerous connection between the need for political reforms (i.e.,
a representative legislature) and the need to feed the hungry.
Austrian military intervention inspired an equally dangerous tie
between political radicalism and paranoiac xenophobia. Particularly
important, though, according to Schama's most interestingly
unfashionable thesis, the revolutionaries believed in their own
Rousseauean rhetoric, their demagogic speeches and pamphlets (Marat
and others were successful journalists), their repeated appeals to
patriotic bloodshed. Schama writes, "From the first year . . .
violence was not just an unfortunate side effect from which
enlightened Patriots could selectively avert their eyes; it was the
Revolution's source of collective energy. It was what made the
Revolution revolutionary."
Schama's interpretation is deeply conservative (a viewpoint
with a current vogue all its own), and he is quite aware that
violence has brought other Jacobins to power in other child-eating
revolutions. King Louis did not deserve the guillotine, Schama
argues, and the supposed achievements of the revolution hardly
justified all the other killing. When it ended, new taxes had
replaced old taxes, and the poor remained as poor as ever. If there
is one serious weakness in Schama's portrait, it is his intense
antipathy toward the Jacobin leaders, the Robespierres and Marats,
whom he presents less as misguided zealots than as monsters.
Indeed, the guillotining of Robespierre in 1794, where Schama
abruptly ends his chronicles of a ruined France, seems almost to
give him a sense of grim satisfaction.
Still, there is no need for ideology to teach us such lessons
when history does it so much more subtly -- by means of Napoleon's
elephant and all the rest of what Schama calls history's "chaotic
authenticity." Thus the Marquis de Condorcet, eminent
mathematician, philosopher and advocate of the republic, ended
fleeing for his life through the outskirts of Paris. Stopping at
an inn, he ordered a restorative omelet. When asked how many eggs
he wanted in it, he thoughtlessly asked for a dozen. He was
promptly arrested as a suspicious character and locked up in a
prison cell, where he was later found mysteriously dead.