Gia Pisano

The Final Walks of Sydney Carton and Jean Valjean

Twice now, we have arrived at the original stones of La Force that remain at the corner of Rue Mahler and Rue Pavée. This spot merges the stories of Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities and Jean Valjean in Les Misérables. This is the spot where Cartons accepts his end and Valjean rejects his existence.

For Carton, this streetcorner is where he begins his final walk of life. This is the place where Lucie once stood–devoutly waiting for Darnay's release. She stood outside “in all weathers” hoping he might catch a glimpse of her even for a moment. Lucie did this for fifteen-months despite never seeing Darnay through the barred windows above. Little remains of La Force today. A stone column still stands and there’s a plaque on Rue du Roi de Sicile detailing the 161 political prisoners sentenced to death, including the Princesse de Lamballe, over three days in September of 1792. I imagine Carton looking skyward on a starless night in 1793, uttering “let me follow in her steps.”

He strolled along the darker streets, tracing the path of the tumbrils carting sixty a day to Place de la Revolution. This appears as Place de la Concorde, point C, on my map. The walk down Rue de Rivoli to Rue St Honoré is about three-kilometers, leaving time for contemplation. Perhaps Carton reviewed his plan in swapping places with Darnay. Perhaps he visualized how the guillotine would slice down upon him. Perhaps he felt relief in knowing Lucie would not die with a broken heart. I’d like to think that Carton reflected on his conversation with Mr. Lorry in which he confided that his life has amounted to nothing.

I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing good or service-able to be remembered by!
— Sydney Carton in A Tale of two Cities by Charles Dickens

Carton is haunted by a life lacking purpose. He feels that he serves no greater good. In saving Darnay, Carton can also absolve himself from his internal reckoning. He is the sacrificial lamb as Jesus was for his followers. He is the "resurrection and the life.” His words are sad and endearing. What he failed to achieve in life, he must achieve in martyrdom. His final thought before he dies…

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.
— Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

…is utterly beautiful. He has sealed his fate, and it is La Guillotine. In this treachery, there is a goodness so pure in saving Darnay and sacrificing himself. He is putting an end to others’ suffering, and also his own.

Drawing by Hablot Knight Browne

We returned to Rue Pavée to trace Valjean’s final walks too. While Carton faced a fateful decision at this streetcorner, Valjean faced guilty indecision. He bides his time on his walks to see Cosette, never taking the most direct path. From Rue de l’Homme-Armé to Rue des Filles du Calvaire, Valjean ambles to Rue Pavée criticizing what his life has become. He has lost his sense of purpose. He is devoid of his fatherhood and everything that Cosette meant to him. He always ran from his past for Cosette’s sake, and now that she isn’t around, he has lost the reason to continue running. He was a resurrected man in earlier years, upholding his promise to Bishop Bienvenu to take his silver candle sticks and become an “honest man.” The Bishop said: “Jean Valjean, my brother, you’re no longer owned by evil but by good. It’s your soul I’m buying. I’m redeeming it from dark thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I’m giving it to God.” Valjean was now past his time of renewal. He was a convict in the eyes of the law, an afterthought in Cosette’s new life with Marius, and once again a broken man. On these walks, he could not reconcile the disparate image he saw of himself. His thoughts wavered and scattered, and his feet did the same.

Soon he no longer came even as far as Rue St-Louis. He would arrive at Rue Pavee, shake his head and turn back. Then, he no longer went beyond Rue des Trois-Pavillions. Then, no further than Blancs-Manteaux. He was like the pendulum of a clock that does not get wound, its arc shortening until it stops altogether.
— Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

I believe that Valjean denies himself of Cosette as punishment for his own forsaken soul. He cannot forgive himself for the man he was, running from the law and impersonating others to bury the name of Jean Valjean. His life has been one big sacrifice for Cosette and now he seeks a lonesome death. He clothes himself in the darkness that Carton wore all his life.

I see sacrifice in Carton’s death and in Valjean’s life. These men are contrastive, yet martyrs in their own right. The death that Carton chose for himself was the life that Valjean lived, and vice versa. These final walks reveal the opposing forces of will cast over these men: Carton accepting an early death to save a family and Valjean rejecting a long life to have a family. Each man is contemplative in their own way: Carton evades his own self-cynicism to stand for a greater good and Valjean embraces his inner self-hatred to remove all sense of good. Tragedy and grace walk a fine line here.

I’d like to imagine that in some space and time continuum, Carton and Valjean would have arrived at the corner of Rue Mahler and Rue Pavée in the same instant. Perhaps, they would have bumped into one another lost in their own thoughts. Their eyes would have met. In this glance, there would have been the mutual understanding of the broken and the resurrected man within one another.

A Toutes Les Gloires De La France

How history chooses to remember its victors is on par with how the collective conscience of France chose to remember Napoleon Bonaparte. I grapple with this Caesar-esque figure because I see in him the warped image of divine life and wretched death. He was a warlord in his conquests and a champion of civil freedom and education in his legislation. That’s the difficulty of perspective though, some bow in horror and others in honor.

Of all the corridors to marvel at in Versailles, I marveled at the Gallery of Battles. This is a portion of Versailles that Louis Philipe created as the last king of France. He reopened Versailles to the public as a way for the people (*cough* *cough*, the bourgeois) to reclaim Versailles as their collective history. In doing so, Louis Philipe installed the Gallery of Battles to shape the spectacular narrative of militant France. On my left, Clovis leads the Franks in the Battle of Tolbiac and Joan of Arc liberates Orléans. On my right are Napoleon's victorious campaigns at the battles of Wagram, Friedland, and Jena. He always holds a steady gaze. The awe for Bonaparte is palpable in this hall.

All history is nothing but endless repetition. One century is the plagiarist of the other. The battle of Marengo is a copy of the battle of Pydna. Clovis’s Tolbiac and Napoleon’s Austerlitz are as like to each other as two drops of blood.
— Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

It’s a funny thing, stumbling into Napoleon's image around Versailles. Louis XIV created Versailles as the royal court of France whereby he should rule the country without stepping foot into the Parisian streets. It was the nobility’s gated community. The gilding and grandeur of the palace and grounds is undeniable. The hall of mirrors, Neptune’s fountain, Marie Antoinette’s Petit Trianon–it’s all marvelous. It was also what the peasantry and working class undeniably lacked.

Versailles stood for everything that the Revolution hated and sought to bring down. To a critical degree, Versailles represented a system that Napoleon fought to dismantle as well. Louis Philippe tackled a tricky transformation of Versailles. Tricky, because the Emperor is celebrated in the halls where kings once idled. Tricky, because an erasure of the Hundred Days was Charles X’s due process during the Restoration.

Whether one said ‘regicides’ or ‘voters’, ‘enemies’ or ‘allies’, ‘Napoleon’ or ‘Buonaparte’ - this could divide two men more than any abyss.
— Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

Louis Phillipe elegantly manipulated the narrative of Napoleon Bonaparte in French history. He asked revolutionaries to forget about the coup d’etat of 1799. He asked royalists to forget about the Emperor usurper. He asked republicans to forget about tyrannical control. Above all else, Louis Philipe asked the people to remember Napoleon for the glory of France. On the chateau of Versailles is the text: “A toutes les gloires de la France.” To all the glories of France! A celebration! A hailing! Against the world, France has been victorious in ways that Louis Philipe believed history should preserve.

Whether this was entirely the social doing of Louis Philipe or many I do not know. The city inspires a deep reverence for Napoleon though: on the stone reliefs of the Arc de Triomphe and his monumental tomb in Les Invalides. These are the ways France remembers Napoleon.

Understanding the Democratization of London in its Urban Design

Perhaps there’s a British idealism of social order that will always reside in London. Or so the saying goes, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Charles Dickens explores this line of reasoning in his construction of London within A Tale of Two Cities. London’s social genetics are apparent in the way that the monarchy still exists in the 21st century; however, I don’t believe it to be so obviously evident in the urban design. Streets have a paradoxical quality to them when an absolutist king stares down the road to the site of his own beheading. I am of course describing the statue of King Charles I who faces southward towards his demise at the Banqueting House on Whitehall. A little ways down and the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth—Oliver Cromwell—is stationed outside of Westminster Palace. Safe to say, there is a blurring in British values as you pass statues of both an absolute monarch and absolute democrat within a ten-minute stroll.

So what does this say about London? Well… it’s complicated. London’s historical journey to democratization is inseparable from the city’s streets. There has been a maintenance of the traditional landscape amidst the growth of democratic principles. That’s the ingenuity of the city though, embracing heritage and novelty alike. Buildings bear meaning in ways that go beyond human intentionality. I found this especially relevant while bookpacking Dickensian London. Dickens positions Tellson’s Bank near Temple Bar, the western access point to the old, walled-off City of London. This 1780s mapping of Fleet Street must be independently visualized today as Temple Bar has been moved adjacent to St. Paul’s Cathedral and Tellson’s Bank is a space available for yuppie business gentrification. Poor Mr. Lorry is turning over in his grave as we speak. In its day, Tellson’s was a stale-aired establishment of the old British dogma. This is the dogma that upholds class above all else.

It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness.
— A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

Drawing by Phiz

Drawing by Phiz

In studying the foreclosed bank from which Dickens drew inspiration for Tellson’s, there’s little indication of what the above passage describes. The stone facade has been redone in an attractive romanesque manner that complements the neighborhood. This is a spot in which it’s hard to find the dogged ode to British traditionalism when it’s not right in front of you.

The skyline in the financial district provides a meditative alternative to Whitehall and Fleet Street. There you will see the Corinthian columns of the Mansion House wherein the Lord Mayor of London sleeps each night and skyscrapers of steel and glass towering behind. There you will look to the horizon on Lime Street and see the 16th century St. Andrew Undershaft church birthing the Gherkin out of its clock tower. There you will stand on the cobbled street corner admiring the Victorian Leadenhall Market on your left and the exoskeletal Lloyd’s building on your right. London combines the modern age of architectural design with the past. I illustrate this point to say that bookpacking A Tale of Two Cities means seeing streets through a timeline of change. I am seeing London’s Darwinian evolution. The inheritable traits of the city have adapted over time with external pressures of social disruption.

In this respect the House was much on par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more respectable.”
— A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

There was no capital-lettered English Revolution. I understand this conceptually thanks to the teachings of my ex-BBC professor and I understand this in the way London’s urban design is both static and dynamic just as the process of democratization was. The people of Britain reformed in a manner of small steps. Through the American and French Revolutions, Britain remained devout to the monarchical ideal. It’s bewildering to imagine how those that approved the beheading of King Charles I in 1649 would feel about King Charles III sauntering around Buckingham Palace. Yet, the king of then is no longer the king of now. The path to personal liberty was a sequence of adaptations. Britain’s genetics were not altered all at once.  

The Collective Voice of Nationalism in Song

In a theatre off of Shaftsbury Avenue, I’m immersed in the changing tides of the French government as the Friends of the ABC fight against the national guard. The epilogue is a swelling ensemble in the musical of Les Misérables. The students have died fighting against French bourgeois and King and in the finale of Jean Valjean’s death, the cast joins together in song. 

Do you hear the people sing lost in the valley of the night? It is the music of the people who are climbing to the light.
— Les Misérables Musical

The emotional storm inside me that has been raging for the past three hours of song and dance is subsiding. I finally exhale a sign of relief and find peace of mind in knowing that the killing is over and Jean Valjean rests peacefully.

I read Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables in preparation for this course. The behemoth text is a slow burn of Parisian mapping, historical dramatization, and ethical dilemmas. Les Misérables is a challenge in length and a page-turner in design. Hugo commands stylistic craftsmanship and sculps characters as breathing individuals. Musical productions strive to craft digestive entertainment for the average Broadway-goer. Cameron Mackintosh–the original producer of Les Misérables–tasked himself with turning more than a thousand pages of characters and conflict into orchestra, lyrics, and stage directions. Mackintosh told Les Misérables in the smallest nutshell he could. Momentary scenes capture years of transition and turmoil; Jean Valjean goes from convict to mayor in a matter of minutes whereas Victor Hugo dedicates hundreds of pages to the spiritual resurrection of the man fallen from grace. The musical may not be a carbon copy of the tale, but it has kept Victor Hugo’s work alive and accessible to people worldwide.

One notable difference in portrayal is the epilogue scene. In the novel, Jean Valjean dies in a quiet room with Fantine’s angelic ghost welcoming him to his afterlife. He dies and that is all. 

He sleeps. Though fate dealt with him strangely, he lived. Bereft of his angel, he died. It came about simply, of itself, as night follows when the day is ended.
— Victor Hugo in Les Misérables

In the quiet comfort of Jean Valjean’s death, there’s a certain sweetness.

The musical–by contrast–is an anthem of destiny. The belting ensemble of the living and the dead pump a fist at French transgressions and say, “No More.” It’s an uplifting and collective roar that counterbalances the other numbers.  I suppose both the novel and musical achieve a certain attitude of peace in the reader and audience member respectively. In both, you see Jean Valjean accepting death just as the good light accepts him. You see Fantine and the Bishop and Cossette and Marius love him one last time for the good man he was. This occurs in the musical as well, but with the addition of an ensemble.

As I watched the finale unfold, I recalled a clip my cousin (Samantha) sent me four months ago. At the White House Governors Ball, the United States Army Chorus performed the musical epilogue from Les Misérables for President Donald Trump. The choir entered the banquet hall in blocked formation as politicians wined and dined post inauguration. Sami messaged: “Trump’s got no idea what they’re singing.” He probably didn’t. I wonder about the choice of the U.S. Army to sing the epilogue number of Les Misérables. What was their intent? Was there a message? In the musical, this number is the peoples’ call for change from aristocratic oppression.

We will walk behind the ploughshare;
we will put the sword away
The chain will be broken
And all men
Will have their reward
— Les Misérables Musical

Pardon the term, but I can’t help but think that these men and women were being a bit ballsy. I don’t believe that they were singing a song of praise, but rather of judgement. In so many words, they are saying that Americans will call for change from Trumpian ways. I could be wrong. I could be embracing a grey attitude about the new man in office. Whatever the case may be, strong reasoning was involved in the decision making process for this song. The Les Misérables epilogue is an impactful piece of music that traces back to an even more impactful piece of literature that traces back to an even more impactful past. This decision wasn’t left to chance. Nobody shuffled for a scrap of paper in a fishbowl. This was a purposeful decision; this was sending a message. I delight in their choice. I appreciate that this song captures the thematic timeline of history’s repetition and the collective voice of nationalism.