#what! you’re anti aviary lucile!

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Story time with Lucile Desmoulins compilation

The Violet It was the first day of spring, and I walked out, descending into a valley filled with willows, which, alas! were not yet green. I turned away my eyes from the sight of those melancholy trees denuded of their leaves, and thought only of seeking amid the fresh-springing grass for the first flower of the fairest season. I walked a long time without finding anything, but at length, as far off as my sight could reach, I perceived a violet, one single violet! Oh, how beautiful it was! I flew to the spot, and was about to pick it, when, (what was my surprise!) the humble flower stirred, and seemed to endeavour to extricate itself from beneath my fingers! Fearing to deceive myself, I stretched out my hand. Then a voice, as sweet as its perfume, made itself heard, ”What are you doing, Lucile,” it said to me; ”why would you tear me from the earth? Alas! suffer me to live yet awhile; no one here treads me underfoot; you will soon find thousands more beautiful than I; in a bouquet I should be lost, mixed up with others, and I should add nothing to its size; let me end my days here.” Touched by such affecting language, I replied: ”Fear nothing, gentile flower, I would never be so cruel as to destroy you; let me only inhale your breath.” Then she lifted her odorous head, and her leaves unfolded themselves. Moved to tears, I allowed one to fall into her calix. She said to me: ”Your tears recruit my strength; I shall live longer than my fellows.” Then I said, ”I will come every day and moisten your leaves with sweet pure water.” ”Come,” she replied, ”but come always alone.” I promised her this, and every day I went to tend her, and to inhale her delicious perfume. Alas! I shall never see my friend again! My charming violet — one evening — in vain I sustained her bending stem, in vain slightly sprinkled her with water drops to revive her; her last hour had come. I shall visit that valley no more, but I shall ever think of my sweet violet.

First cited in Camille Desmoulins and his wife: passage from the history of the dantonists by Jules Claretie (1876) page 128-129

What I would do if I were in her place If destiny had placed me on the throne, if I was queen, and, having brought pain to my subjects, a just death for my crimes had been prepared for me, I wouldn’t wait for the moment when an unrestrained population came to tear me from my palace to drag me unworthily to the foot of the scaffold, I would prevent their blows, I say, and would like by dying to impose them on the entire universe. I would have a large enclosure prepared in a public place, I would have a stake erected there and barriers surrounding it, and three days before my death I would let the people know my intentions. At the back of the enclosure and opposite the stake I would erect an altar. During these three days I would go to the foot of this altar to pray to the great master of the universe, on the third day I would like all my mourning family to accompany me to the stake, this ceremony would take place at midnight by light torches.

First cited in Les Autographes et le goûts des autographes en France et à l’entranger (1865) page 301-302

The Aviary Cloé had only seen the revolution of the twelve months of the year twelve times. Her only occupation, her only amusement during this happy period of her life, was to look for nests in the woods and to see these young broods growing under her eyes and by her care. The little birds had grown big, she didn't have the courage to get rid of them; she kept them all and fed them as best she could. Her parents, who were not wealthy, were forced to interfere with their daughter's innocent pleasures. The aviary had become considerable and required a fairly large quantity of grain, which the young shepherdess obtained only with great difficulty. She had even had to steal more than once. One morning the young Cloé had gone out to find some new broods. What a sight awaited her on her return! She arrives very happy, in her hands a pretty nest of warblers. She runs to her aviary: the door to it was wide open, and not a bird inside... The merry finches, the bullfinches, the frank sparrows, the goldfinches, the tender warbler, the nightingale... and you too, faithful pigeon, all had taken their flight: not a single one had awaited the return of their poor master! How to paint Cloé's despair? At first she remains motionless and mute. A moment later, rage seizes her, she tears out her blond hair, she is flooded with tears; then she overturns and breaks the cage under her feet; she goes, comes, walks out and returns almost immediately. Several times one sees her following the birds in the air with her eyes, hoping to distinguish some of those in her aviary. She can no longer eat, and throws away all the objects that could remind her of too dear memories. At twenty, she was no more distressed when she learned of the infidelity of her beloved shepherd. One hears her exclaim: “Ah! Alas! They gave up their beneficence… Even though nothing was missing. These ingrates! What had they to desire? I shared with them the bread that was given to me for myself alone. I made them eat it out of my hand. How many times didn’t I go to the garden to pick up for them the fruit that had fallen from the tree! I spent whole hours looking for new worms for them that they love so much! How many times have I exposed myself for them to the reproaches and threats of my parents! Every morning, every evening I took care of them, as a mother takes care of her little children. I caressed them in turn; I warmed them in my bosom. How many times have I disturbed my sleep to go discover some companions for them at dawn, through brambles and thorns! They were all my pleasures. Near them I forgot the hour of the dance. They even recognized me and returned my caresses. During the winter, when the snow covers the fields, where will they take refuge? They will die of cold and hunger… if the bird-catcher does not trap them to give them to cruel children, or else the inhuman hunter… O my poor little birds, how I pity you! Alas! You miss me. Cruel parents, it is you who cause us all these evils!”

An elderly shepherdess, her neighbour, had heard the lamentations of the young Cloé. Touched by her good heart, she came up and said to her, embracing her: 

”Console yourself, beloved child, do not cry over the fate of your lost birds; all your care did not make them happier... 

”My dear, what more did they need? I could have given it to them.”

”Liberty, my dear daughter: it is the greatest of goods. For her, we face the rigor of the seasons, the traps of the bird catcher, the gun of the hunter. For her we forget her benefactress, and the benefactress has no right to call ungrateful those who prefer only liberty to her.”

”So you mean that, free, they can be even happier than they were with me?”

”Yes, Cloé.”

”You assure me, my dear?”

”Yes, beloved child.”

”Well, if it is as you tell me, I am willing to forgive them.”

First cited in Paris en 1794 et en 1795: histoire de la rue, du club, de la famine, composée d’après des documents inédits, particulièrement les rapports de police et les registres du Comité de salut public, avec une introduction par C-A Dauban (1869) by Charles-Aimé Dauban, page 335-337.