witnesses

 

Historians in search of a method in the early twentieth century adopted a motto first: Cicero’s “Ne quid falsi audeat, ne quid veri non audeat historia”- which has been translate in various ways, like "Let him dare to say nothing false, nor fail to say anything true.” Unlike the study of, say, horses, the human historian is dealing mostly with humans who are always saying false things, and always believe, in one or another circumstance, false things, and who often have reasonable suspicions about saying true things, either because they are inconvenient and endangering, or because they invoke causes that are either utterly opaque or utterly incredible.

Yesterday I, an inhabitant of Paris since 2010, went for the very first time to visit Versailles. I went, I should say, in my first year in Paris to Fontainebleau, and I have gone back many times. Similarly, I have visited many of the famous Chateaux along the Loire. Versailles, however, spooked me. The King it celebrates, Louis XIV, is on my list of evil rulers. I am, by nature, a Fronde-ist, and that autocratic, bewigged harem keeper arouses an interior howl of protest that touches all things Quatorzieme.

Nevertheless, visiting it with Adam and A., I was suitably bowled over. After a while, though, the magnificence becomes rather sad. It is a palace that few people, few kings and queens, could inhabit with any comfort. It seems so utterly stripped of intimacy. Unlike Fontainebleau, there is no Renaissance behind this profusion of painting and sculpture; the nymphs have departed, replaced by grand effigies of nymphs.

Which is very unfair.

However, the melancholy of the place really hit me in the “war” room, which, with its paintings of Napoleon’s battles, of General Rochambeau at Yorktown, etc., didn’t exist in the Roi Soleil’s time, or at least with these paintings. What paintings! This vast wing is hung with paintings of battles that are on canvases taller than I am and wider than a big sofa. All are of battles won by the French. Hence, I believe, no Waterloo, no Sedan, no flight from Paris as the Nazis advanced.

A battle is an ontologically difficult thing – named usually for a place where it iconically happens, even if it happens in reality in many places at once. From the Bhagavad-Gita to The Charterhouse of Parma, the combatant and the combat have formed an uneasy duo, a witness to the mystery of events.

Moving across the room, overshadowed by these towering scenes of decorous slaughter and horseback glory, one longs for peace, for a much less bloody kind of pastoral. To traverse that room is to become, briefly perhaps, a pacifist.

In 1929, a book was published by a French-American historian, Jean-Norton Cru: Temoins – Witnesses. It provoked a scandal in France as intense as Remarque’s novel provoked in Germany. It asked about the combatant’s experience in histories that spoke about war from the point of view, exclusively, of the commanders and politicians, of those outside the charnel circle of combat. For Cru, the « Stendhal » paradox has been cruelly misunderstood.

When Fabrice del Dongo, a 17 year old idealist, “wanders through” the battle of Waterloo without finding it, so to speak, the paradox has been interpreted to mean that the combatant, the skin and bones and senses on the field, is disqualified as a witness to the battle as a whole – we must leave that to the commanders. Cru believed that Fabrice’s experience was, on the contrary, with its fragmentation, gaps in information, and zigzags exactly the battlefield experience history was failing to transmit:

“These questions, I asked them, like many another soldier without a doubt, from the day when, in 1914, the contact, the brutal shock of formidable realities of the the war reduced into bits my bookish conception of the acts and sentiments of the soldier in combat, a historical conception that, naively, I believed scientific. I then understood that I did not know war with a total ignorance of its foundation, its truth, all that which is applicable to every war, and that this ignorance brought in its train the ruin of all the opinions from whence it was derived.”

In this moment, Cru believed – and in this he was, perhaps unwittingly, a cousin to the modernist artists of his generation – that the problem was in imposing a totality on the mass of voices and consciousnesses, rather than letting that totality emerge from the mass of voices and consciousnesses. Just as Dublin on June 14, 1904, was the emergent structure of its dreaming and interior monologuing inhabitants, so too was World War 1 an emergent structure that command and the state claimed and defined by inverting the order of reality.

Cru’s equivalent to Fabrice del Dongo’s 18 June 1815 experience was Verdun, where he was posted on Jan. 17, 1917. He was part of a squadron relieving another squadron, which had been ordered to dig a trench. The trench, the new squadron found, was undug.

“The poor guys had tried, but even though they have finished other work in easier terrain, they couldn’t begin to penetrate this conglomerate of stones and dirt, all frozen together, as compact as concrete. Remember the rigors of that winter. On our arrival, the virtual trench was assigned to us and we were told that the whatever it takes of the corps had been so energetic that the work had been dubbed finished – in counting on warmer temperatures to permit digging the trench. But the freeze persisted. »

Thus, on the maps used by the generals, a trench existed because the trench had been ordered. Against this was the reality of the territory facing the men in Cru’s squadron, where the trench did not exist, and could not exist, in spite of the squad’s efforts, due to temperature and terrain.

Who, here, was lost? The grunt or the commanders?

“Our division inherited firstly the miseries of those poor soldiers : in the course of six days on the line, I lost my entire squadron, a quarter of the men were killed or wounded, three quarters were evacuated due to frostbite.”

Cru operationalizes a recognizably Cartesian dualism between the spirit and the body, but turns the cognitive hierarchy upside down: it is the body that knows, while the spirit loses itself in abstraction.

Cru was not a Marxist. But he wrote a book that significantly altered historiography, introduced the ways and means to write a history from the bottom up. A modernist history, if you will, and one that will never be plastered on the walls of wings of palaces.