June 4, 1832
My son, why must you sacrifice your life and the lives of all your
friends? Is the Republic really worth it if you are not alive to see it?
Why do you wish for martyrdom? And what good will the Republic be for me
if it comes at the cost of my only son's life? I know how we both long
for the Republic; with your high ideals, you see nothing but good coming
from it. But, my dearest son, I have lived through the Terror of 1794,
and I have seen how a republic, established with nothing but good
intentions, can fall into the hands of monsters with nothing but blood and
hate on their minds. Your own grandfather--my father, for whom I named
you (against your father's strong objections, I remember)--was a victim of
the Terror. Enjolras, when I look at you, sometimes I see him looking
back at me. You have his face: his fiery eyes and his high forehead,
although your blond hair is your father's. He, too, was an idealist.
"The Republic will benefit all of humanity," he said to me in 1792. I was
only a child at the time, but how well I remember.
Why have I not told you this before? At first you were too young
to understand; then, when you grew older, I hardly ever saw you. As soon
as you were old enough, you went to the University and devoted your whole
time to your studies, just as you now devote it to your cause. And you
would spend entire nights in the streets among the poor, so that you would
better know their way of life, which you wish to improve. No, my son, you
never gave me time to tell you of my childhood. On this night, before you
and your friends go to build your barricade and fight for freedom, let me
tell you my story.
You know that I was born in Spain. I remember very little of my
life there, because I was so young when we came to France. All I know is
that we were wealthy; not as wealthy as your father is today, but wealthy
all the same. My father was a lawyer. (How proud I was of you when you
went to study law, "to put an end to all injustice", as you said. It was
my father's wish as well.) In 1789, when revolution broke out in France,
my father was ecstatic. I was only five years old then; my father took me
on his knee and said, more to my mother than to me, "The years to come
will be the beginning of a golden age. There will be no more war, no more
poverty, and no more hunger. All people will learn to love each other; no
children will starve because their fathers can't get work; no one will be
forced out on the streets because everyone will have a home." Enjolras,
the last time we had a serious conversation (when was that? A month ago?)
you said much the same thing to me. I should have told you then about my
father, but all I could do was shake my head sadly and turn aside.
My father no longer wished to stay in Spain; all he could think of
was France, "the land of freedom", as he said. And so my family--my
parents, my older sister, and I--left Spain and came to live in the city
of Marseille. In spite of our being Spanish, the people there welcomed us
as friends of the Revolution, and my father became a respected citizen.
(We were only one of many families who came to France in those days, not
only from Spain, but from all over Europe. How high our hopes were, and
how terribly they were destroyed!)
If only things had stayed as they were in those early days of the
Revolution! But no, the monsters had to come, to turn our dream of a
golden age into a nightmare of blood and terror. Late in 1793, the city
council of Marseille sent my father on a mission to Paris; my mother, my
sister, and I went to Paris with him because we knew he would be there for
several months at least. We lived in a wealthy neighborhood and my father
knew some of the revolutionary leaders personally. Soon, though, he was
bitterly disillusioned. Every day we saw a new group of prisoners going
to the guillotine; many of them had not even done anything wrong. My
father said that the Terror must stop; unfortunately, Robespierre found
out about my father's words and had him arrested. A few days later, he
was guillotined, and my family lost everything we had.
Enjolras, in one of your fiery debates with your father last year,
I heard you say, "Robespierre was a giant!" Nothing you have said has
ever hurt me more. Robespierre was a monster. How could you so admire
the man who killed your grandfather? Of course, you did not know this at
the time; it is so painful for me to tell you now; I could not speak of it
before, but you must know this before you go to fight for the Republic.
Even though you did not know how your grandfather died, you should have
known that Robespierre killed many other innocent people. Your friend
Combeferre will tell you this; I do not know Combeferre very well, but I
have spoken with him a few times and I have seen that he has no admiration
for Robespierre.
How did I live after my father's death, you ask me? My mother, my
sister, and I were forced into a life of poverty. We had to leave our
comfortable house and move to the slums of Paris. My mother became
deathly ill; she never completely regained her strength; my sister had to
work as a washerwoman to support her; and I, who was only ten years old,
had to beg in the streets. Our life--if you can call it a life--in the
slums lasted for five years or more. If it hadn't been for the kindness
of a wealthy young man who was our neighbor in better days, this horrible
life might have lasted forever. The young man had left the country as a
royalist but returned a few years later, after Robespierre's downfall.
Yes, Enjolras, this young man was your father.
You and your father can no longer speak to each other without
fighting. He is an unbending royalist; I know this all too well. But,
Enjolras, your father is a good man. You must believe me, and forgive him
for his politics. He rescued my family from our poverty and, when I
turned seventeen, we were married.
Your father condemns your revolution now, but he only wants what
is best for you, as he sees it. Above all, he wants you to live! As do
I, my dearest son, more than anything else in the world. Unlike your
father, I understand your dream of a better world to come. You might
think that I would hate the thought of a republic after what happened to
my father. But no; I wish for a republic, too: one that is closer to what
my father dreamed of, before France fell into the hands of evil men. You
say that is what you wish for, too. But why this sacrifice? My father
sacrificed his life for his ideals when he spoke out against the Terror;
Enjolras, it frightens me to think that you too would sacrifice yourself.
To see the two people I have loved most in the world give their lives for
their ideal republic! Don't you understand how horrible that is for me?
I want France to be a republic, but I want you to be alive to see it.
And think of your friends, too. Over the past few years you have
been their leader. I have seen the inner fire in your eyes as you speak
to them of revolution; what a hold you have over them! (Even the few
times you have brought them to our house, I have seen this.) Every one of
them would die for you. I think of them now: Courfeyrac, Joly, Lesgle,
Bahorel, Feuilly the workingman who taught himself to read and write, the
gentle poet Jean Prouvaire, the philosopher Combeferre (I liked Combeferre
from the first time I met him, four years ago. He would be a good
influence on you, I thought.) Even the drunken Grantaire; don't you
realize that he worships you as a hero although you speak of him almost
with contempt? But above all there is young Marius Pontmercy. He is the
youngest of your group; you do not take much notice of him now, but he
looks up to you as an older brother. I have seen Marius only once, but
even in that brief time I could tell what he feels for you. They tell me
now that Marius is deeply in love. (What was the young woman's name? I do
not recall.) Having never been in love yourself, I'm not sure you
completely understand what this means. If Marius dies tomorrow on the
barricade, can you imagine how that young woman will feel? Enjolras, let
them enjoy a happy life together! I hate the thought that any of these
young men will sacrifice their lives.
"But how will we be free unless we fight for our freedom?" you
ask. "It will cost lives, but the goal is worth the sacrifice." My dear
son, I cannot answer that. If only I could be sure that, of all the
people of Paris who are going to fight tomorrow, you and your friends
would survive! But instead I have the feeling that some of you, or even
all of you, will die. By telling you my father's story, I am giving you a
warning of what the French Republic can turn into. Then perhaps you can
decide for yourself if it is worth the cost. And, my dearest son,
remember that I love you, no matter what you decide to do.
Back to my home
page.
Copyright 1997 Vicki Kondelik.