Kabanata Kabanata 267 · THE SURFACE OF THE QUESTION

Of what is revolt composed? Of nothing and of everything. Of an

electricity disengaged, little by little, of a flame suddenly darting

forth, of a wandering force, of a passing breath. This breath

encounters heads which speak, brains which dream, souls which suffer,

passions which burn, wretchedness which howls, and bears them away.

Whither?

At random. Athwart the state, the laws, athwart prosperity and the

insolence of others.

Irritated convictions, embittered enthusiasms, agitated indignations,

instincts of war which have been repressed, youthful courage which has

been exalted, generous blindness; curiosity, the taste for change, the

thirst for the unexpected, the sentiment which causes one to take

pleasure in reading the posters for the new play, and love, the

prompter’s whistle, at the theatre; the vague hatreds, rancors,

disappointments, every vanity which thinks that destiny has bankrupted

it; discomfort, empty dreams, ambitions that are hedged about, whoever

hopes for a downfall, some outcome, in short, at the very bottom, the

rabble, that mud which catches fire,—such are the elements of revolt.

That which is grandest and that which is basest; the beings who prowl

outside of all bounds, awaiting an occasion, bohemians, vagrants,

vagabonds of the crossroads, those who sleep at night in a desert of

houses with no other roof than the cold clouds of heaven, those who,

each day, demand their bread from chance and not from toil, the unknown

of poverty and nothingness, the bare-armed, the bare-footed, belong to

revolt. Whoever cherishes in his soul a secret revolt against any deed

whatever on the part of the state, of life or of fate, is ripe for

riot, and, as soon as it makes its appearance, he begins to quiver, and

to feel himself borne away with the whirlwind.

Revolt is a sort of waterspout in the social atmosphere which forms

suddenly in certain conditions of temperature, and which, as it eddies

about, mounts, descends, thunders, tears, razes, crushes, demolishes,

uproots, bearing with it great natures and small, the strong man and

the feeble mind, the tree trunk and the stalk of straw. Woe to him whom

it bears away as well as to him whom it strikes! It breaks the one

against the other.

It communicates to those whom it seizes an indescribable and

extraordinary power. It fills the firstcomer with the force of events;

it converts everything into projectiles. It makes a cannon-ball of a

rough stone, and a general of a porter.

If we are to believe certain oracles of crafty political views, a

little revolt is desirable from the point of view of power. System:

revolt strengthens those governments which it does not overthrow. It

puts the army to the test; it consecrates the bourgeoisie, it draws out

the muscles of the police; it demonstrates the force of the social

framework. It is an exercise in gymnastics; it is almost hygiene. Power

is in better health after a revolt, as a man is after a good rubbing

down.

Revolt, thirty years ago, was regarded from still other points of view.

There is for everything a theory, which proclaims itself “good sense”;

Philintus against Alcestis; mediation offered between the false and the

true; explanation, admonition, rather haughty extenuation which,

because it is mingled with blame and excuse, thinks itself wisdom, and

is often only pedantry. A whole political school called “the golden

mean” has been the outcome of this. As between cold water and hot

water, it is the lukewarm water party. This school with its false

depth, all on the surface, which dissects effects without going back to

first causes, chides from its height of a demi-science, the agitation

of the public square.

If we listen to this school, “The riots which complicated the affair of

1830 deprived that great event of a portion of its purity. The

Revolution of July had been a fine popular gale, abruptly followed by

blue sky. They made the cloudy sky reappear. They caused that

revolution, at first so remarkable for its unanimity, to degenerate

into a quarrel. In the Revolution of July, as in all progress

accomplished by fits and starts, there had been secret fractures; these

riots rendered them perceptible. It might have been said: ‘Ah! this is

broken.’ After the Revolution of July, one was sensible only of

deliverance; after the riots, one was conscious of a catastrophe.

“All revolt closes the shops, depresses the funds, throws the Exchange

into consternation, suspends commerce, clogs business, precipitates

failures; no more money, private fortunes rendered uneasy, public

credit shaken, industry disconcerted, capital withdrawing, work at a

discount, fear everywhere; counter-shocks in every town. Hence gulfs.

It has been calculated that the first day of a riot costs France twenty

millions, the second day forty, the third sixty, a three days’ uprising

costs one hundred and twenty millions, that is to say, if only the

financial result be taken into consideration, it is equivalent to a

disaster, a shipwreck or a lost battle, which should annihilate a fleet

of sixty ships of the line.

“No doubt, historically, uprisings have their beauty; the war of the

pavements is no less grandiose, and no less pathetic, than the war of

thickets: in the one there is the soul of forests, in the other the

heart of cities; the one has Jean Chouan, the other has a Jeanne.

Revolts have illuminated with a red glare all the most original points

of the Parisian character, generosity, devotion, stormy gayety,

students proving that bravery forms part of intelligence, the National

Guard invincible, bivouacs of shopkeepers, fortresses of street

urchins, contempt of death on the part of passers-by. Schools and

legions clashed together. After all, between the combatants, there was

only a difference of age; the race is the same; it is the same stoical

men who died at the age of twenty for their ideas, at forty for their

families. The army, always a sad thing in civil wars, opposed prudence

to audacity. Uprisings, while proving popular intrepidity, also

educated the courage of the bourgeois.

“This is well. But is all this worth the bloodshed? And to the

bloodshed add the future darkness, progress compromised, uneasiness

among the best men, honest liberals in despair, foreign absolutism

happy in these wounds dealt to revolution by its own hand, the

vanquished of 1830 triumphing and saying: ‘We told you so!’ Add Paris

enlarged, possibly, but France most assuredly diminished. Add, for all

must needs be told, the massacres which have too often dishonored the

victory of order grown ferocious over liberty gone mad. To sum up all,

uprisings have been disastrous.”

Thus speaks that approximation to wisdom with which the bourgeoisie,

that approximation to the people, so willingly contents itself.

For our parts, we reject this word _uprisings_ as too large, and

consequently as too convenient. We make a distinction between one

popular movement and another popular movement. We do not inquire

whether an uprising costs as much as a battle. Why a battle, in the

first place? Here the question of war comes up. Is war less of a

scourge than an uprising is of a calamity? And then, are all uprisings

calamities? And what if the revolt of July did cost a hundred and

twenty millions? The establishment of Philip V. in Spain cost France

two milliards. Even at the same price, we should prefer the 14th of

July. However, we reject these figures, which appear to be reasons and

which are only words. An uprising being given, we examine it by itself.

In all that is said by the doctrinarian objection above presented,

there is no question of anything but effect, we seek the cause.

We will be explicit.