Surely also, in some place not of honour, stands or sprawls up querulous, that he too, though short, may see,—one squalidest bleared mortal, redolent of soot and horse-drugs: Jean Paul Marat of Neuchatel! O Marat, Renovator of Human Science, Lecturer on Optics; O thou remarkablest Horseleech, once in D'Artois' Stables,—as thy bleared soul looks forth, through thy bleared, dull-acrid, wo-stricken face, what sees it in all this? Any faintest light of hope; like dayspring after Nova-Zembla night? Or is it but blue sulphur-light, and spectres; woe, suspicion, revenge without end? (Thomas Carlyle, The French Revolution, 1837.)
– What was it like?
– Dying, you mean?
– No. Living.
– Oh. I expect you know as well as I do.
– Do you really think so?
– No, but I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt.
On December nights like this he throws open the window and leans out over the street, listening to the sound of the city. The cold has always suited him. A healthy glow on his skin, his lungs feel bottomless, he feels alive.
– You were a foreigner. People like to mention that, especially these days. You were Mara, the Swiss. (They say, even, that you were a foreigner among the Helvetians.)
– Well, it's not a lie, but it's a partial truth. I was much more than that.
– You travelled the world. You saw London and Edinburgh.
– You realise that the world is much bigger than London and Edinburgh?
– Of course. But it's still farther than I've ever been. What was it like?
– Wet.
– I'd like to see Edinburgh one day. I've always admired Hume.
– Hume has been dead for some time, I'm afraid.
– Oh, that doesn't matter.
His gaze is sharp. He's brilliant, and it shows; he exudes it. Combeferre, who has often been called clever himself, feels like a stupid child, averting his eyes.
– How did you manage it? How could you be a man of science and a revolutionary, all at once?
– All men of science have been revolutionaries, if they had any worth at all.
– Exquisite! But what I really meant, when I said 'revolutionary', was 'man of the People'.
– Oh. Well, that isn't possible. You're either one, or you're the other.
– But why?
– You ought to know. Both require total devotion. Tell me, what is most important to you in the world?
– The People.
– Good lad. And would you lay down your life for them?
– I would.
He picks up the cat in the corner, holding her gently by the scruff. She does not spit or struggle in his grasp, which impresses Combeferre.
– Would you sacrifice her life, too?
– But she's innocent!
– Aren't you?
– Yes, but I'm free to decide how I use my body – my life.
– Are you? Then what on earth are you fighting against?
– Don't, you frustrate me.
He grins smugly. At last Combeferre sees it: not the man of the world, but the man of Paris, of here and now and all of us. He finds he wants to smile, too.
– That's good. Do be honest. I hate when you're obsequious.
It's difficult, though, to be blunt with a Divine Martyr of the Republic.
– Tell me, citizen – what was your name? – yes, well, in any case – Why do you seek me out? Why, when you find me so distasteful? Is it for my illustrious reputation, or the warmth of my companionship?
– To tell the truth – I'm afraid it will sound foolish after what you've just said. 'You're either one, or the other' – that part. But that's just the reason I admire you: because you were both.
– I begin to grasp your misconception. I was both, at one point or another. I lived half a century; I had plenty of time to pursue different accomplishments. I wrote a romance once (may it never see the light of day), but before I became the People's Friend I was best known for my treatise on gleets. Now that I am in the past tense, one can say, 'Jean-Paul Marat was a celebrated physician and political journalist', and it would not be wrong. But never, never at the same time. Would that I had seen the mark of my mortality – perhaps I would have tried. Fifty years… But I don't like this semantic prattle. You're quite dull, you know, for a revolutionary.
– But didn't it ever make you sad, leaving it all behind?
No answer. The doctor is still holding the cat.
– Because that's what really gets to me, when I think about it. It's not that I'm afraid of dying, not for my own sake. I'm not afraid of giving up the sensual pleasures. I'm not afraid of leaving my – my family…
– Liar.
– …or my friends, or my mistress. But what terrifies me is imagining all the things I'll never know. Or, rather, not imagining, because how can I picture something I've never seen or heard of? I often think, if I were to live long and die of old age, about all of the developments I would see, new inventions, new theories, new personalities. Do you realise, I could conceivably live into the twentieth century? The twentieth century! It's strange even to think about. What will the world be like, then? I could stick around and find out, if fate were on my side. But I know it won't be possible.
– You realise, too, that I could still have been alive today? It is, as you say, conceivable.
Combeferre is taken aback. No, he hadn't thought of that. Imagine, the frail white-haired creature, all his venom long dried up. Sitting at his hearth perhaps, smoking an ancient pipe. It was only a few years ago that the widow Évrard died. To think that her husband might have outlived her!
– You'll have to decide whether it's a fair trade: the People's future, for your own.
He very well might have lived. If he had stuck to medicine – that is to say, to serving the people in a different manner. Even as the People's Friend, he might have lived; he had eluded enemies before. He survived, time and again, if he sometimes seemed but half-alive. Persecution he understood; but death had come to him disguised as an unhappy friend, pleading for his aid. He might have lived.
– But that's assuming I will die. It's not a given.
– I was wondering when you'd realise that.
– I might live to be a hundred, and die a free man.
– I wish it so, with all my heart.
– And my grandchildren: free citizens, every one. I couldn't bear it any other way. I want to see them.
– Don't be too impatient. There's plenty of work to be done before that.
– Yes. Yes. There is always work to be done. And I will always be working. And once we have a Republic, once we have at last brought the great Revolution to a close and everything is settled –
– I'd recommend you close the window, unless you want to catch a chill and die before the winter ends.