When, in May, 1793, Robespierre and the Mountain effected the final overthrow of the Girondists--the moderate party of the French revolutionists--M. Roland, who had recently resigned his office in the ministry, was forced to flee, and his wife was thrown into prison. To solace the sad hours of her captivity, she began to write her own Memoirs. "I propose to myself," she says, "to employ the leisure hours of my captivity in relating the history of my life, from my infancy to the present time. Thus to retrace the steps of one's career is to live a second time; and what better can a prisoner do than, by a happy fiction, or by interesting recollections, to transport herself from her prison?"
Her Memoirs are dated at the "Prison of St. Pelagie, August 9th, 1793," and she thus commences: "Daughter of an artist, wife of a philosopher, who, when a minister of state, remained a man of virtue; now a prisoner, destined, perhaps, to a violent and unexpected death,--I have known happiness and adversity; I have learned what glory is, and have suffered injustice. Born in an humble condition, but of respectable parents, I passed my youth in the bosom of the arts, and amidst the delights of study; knowing no superiority but that of merit, no grandeur but that of virtue."
Her father, Gratien Philipon, was an engraver. During the early years of Manon's life, he was well off, employing many workmen under him. His wife possessed little of what is called knowledge, but she had a discerning judgment and a gentle and affectionate disposition. By her example, as well as by the course of education which her disposition led her to pursue, she formed in her daughter the same gentle, feminine spirit which she herself possessed.
"The wisdom and kindness of my mother," says Madame Roland, "quickly acquired over my gentle and tender character an ascendency which was used only for my good. It was so great that, in those slight, inevitable differences between reason which governs and childhood which resists, she had need to resort to no other punishment than to call me, coldly, _Mademoiselle_, and to regard me with a severe countenance. I feel, even now, the impression made on me by her look, which at other times was so tender and caressing. I hear, almost with shivering, the word _mademoiselle_ substituted for the sweet name of _daughter_, or the tender appellation of _Manon_. Yes, Manon; it was thus they called me: I am sorry for the lovers of romances, the name is not noble; it suits not a dignified heroine; but, nevertheless, it was mine, and it is a history that I am writing. But the most fastidious would have been reconciled to the name, had they heard my mother pronounce it, or had they seen her who bore it. No expression wanted grace, when accompanied by the affectionate tone of my mother; when her touching voice penetrated my soul, did it teach me to resemble her? Lively without being ever rompish, and naturally retiring, I asked only to be occupied, and seized with quickness the ideas which were presented to me. This disposition was so well taken advantage of, that I do not remember learning to read: I have heard that I did so before I was four years old, and that, after that time, nothing more was required than to supply me with books."