Sorry I have not posted in a long time my followers. All zero of you. Here is a story I did for the INTP forum's writing brawl which didn't happen. Will post again soon when there is something to say. Researching Husserl right now. Note: The spacing is weird in blogger.
The Incorruptible
Maximilien stared up at the sky amid the trees in Arras. The little sunlight remaining illuminated only the edges of the trees. He had returned home soon after the constitution had been finalized. People lauded him and the rest of the Jacobins as the saviors of France, the founding fathers of a new republic. The terror was over. People were beginning to return to their normal lives. Sometimes there were still outbursts of violence but people were going back to work. But despite the adulation and congratulations the people had given him, Maximilien Robespierre still felt that things could have turned out better. In his opinion the terror should have never stopped. He knew that when he returned to Paris there would still be the enemies of the people amid his own colleagues. And he had allowed it.
Walking back down the grassy path he saw Charlotte standing in the doorway. Charlotte threw her arms around her brother. Maximilien lightly returned the embrace; he was in no mood for his over affectionate sister. The Robespierre household was cozy, not a large house, but nicely decorated with a fire going in the corner. His brother Augustine was still in Paris. How he longed to return. What was the future for the committee of public safety now that the constitution was in effect? He knew there were still enemies in Paris. His enemies and, by extension, enemies of the people and The Revolution were running the assembly. They said he was too bloodthirsty, they said he was a dictator. They even had the audacity to claim innocents had died. They only bothered stopping him when he was so close to exposing their corruption and having their heads cut off like they deserved. But then he had to face one question… why was he still alive?
He looked over those events that had lead up to the creation of the new constitution. He thought back to that night in the committee room. He had been looking over cases for the execution of a new batch of alleged counterrevolutionaries. Having supreme confidence in the local tribunal of that city he simply signed the off on the deaths. The men on the tribunal were like him, incorruptible, pure extensions of the people’s will. They could do no wrong as the people could do no wrong, as he could no wrong. The only other man in the room was Couthon. Couthon scooted his wheel chair over to Maximilien’s side of the desk.
“Don’t you think you should be a little more moderate in your use of the death sentence?” Couthon asked
Maximilien looked over at Couthon with surprise “What is this all of a sudden? You don’t trust the tribunals?”
“Listen, the tribunals make their charges at a drop of hat, taking the slightest deviation as proof positive of unpatriotic character. It is your job to make sure innocent people don’t die.”
“None of them are innocent if they gave evidence of their evil hearts.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“You don’t? I expected more from you.”
“This is why the assembly is turning against you. They say you are tyrant.”
“I am not a tyrant. It is the assembly that hides friends of tyrants.”
“If they hear of that, they will kill you.”
“Kill me?”
“Kill us.”
“Why? They should be glad I plan to liberate the assembly.”
“That is the point! You see enemies everywhere. They will fear they are next.”
“True patriots need not fear.”
“Is anyone besides you a true patriot?”
“Of course! There is you, Saint-Just, Hanriot, my brother, and millions of ordinary French citizens.”
“And if one of those citizens were to die in this terror?”
“They don’t.”
“They do. And you need to ease and lighten the terror. The new constitution is coming. After it’s drafted, people will want the terror to stop. When will it end?”
Maximilien remained silent. He remembered what he had once said as a rhetorical flourish to such a question before. It now struck him as all too true. “Never.” As he said this he took off his large glasses and slumped down in his chair.
“Excuse me? Did you just say ‘never’?”
“I’m tired Couthon. I’m so very tired. Maybe you are right. Maybe I’ll let the assembly have their constitution. Maybe lightening the terror is the next stage in The Revolution. I’ll live and France will grow.” He got up and began to go down the stairs “Good night Couthon.”
He kept his word but had Couthon killed for lack of patriotism. His head fell on the 10th of Thermidor.
As Maximilien reflected up in his study it dawned on him that he had had a moment of total weakness. He had done all the wrong things for the only thing that had meaning for him: The Revolution. Innocents had died, Couthon was one of them, and he had allowed it. And there were still enemies on the assembly; he had allowed them to live. He was as human, as corrupt as the rest of them. He had betrayed the Revolution. He got the revolver out of the drawer. “Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood. For the Fatherland and People of France. God forgive my sins. Amen.”
And he shot himself. Charlotte screamed.
