VOLTAIRE.—JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.—CHARACTERISTIC DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE ENGLISH AND THE FRENCH NATIONS.—M. DE CHATEAUBRIAND.—HIS SPEECH AT THE INSTITUTE.—AFFECTED ANGER OF THE EMPEROR ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.—HIS PRINCIPLES ON THAT HEAD.
Saturday, 1st of June.—The Emperor sent for me. He had just come out of his bath, where he had remained three hours, and he asked me to guess what book he had been engaged in reading whilst in the water; it was Rousseau’s New Eloise. He had expressed himself quite charmed with this work when he first perused it at the Briars; but in analysing it again, he now criticised it with unsparing severity. The rock of la Meillerie being mentioned, he said he thought it had been destroyed when he caused a road to be made over the Simplon; but I assured him that enough remained to preserve a perfect recollection of it: it projects over the road, and, like Leucate of old, offers a fine leap to despairing lovers.
To the noble character given by Rousseau to Lord Edward in his New Eloise, and to the impression produced by some of Voltaire’s plays, the Emperor ascribed, in a great measure, the high estimate which had been formed in France of the English character. The facility with which public opinion was governed in those days excited his surprise; Voltaire and Rousseau, who had then directed it as they pleased, would not, he thought, be able to do so at the present time; and Voltaire, in particular, had only exercised so powerful an influence over his contemporaries, and been considered the great man of his age, because all around him were pigmies.
The Emperor then proceeded to compare the character of the English and French nations. “The higher classes among the English,” said he, "are proud; with us unfortunately they are only vain; in that consists the great characteristic distinction between the two nations. The mass of the people in France certainly possess a greater share of national feeling than any other now existing in Europe; they have profited by the experience of their twenty-five years’ revolution; but unfortunately that class which the revolution has advanced have not been found equal to the station of life to which they have been elevated; they have shown themselves corrupt and unstable: in the last struggles they have not been distinguished either by talents, firmness, or virtue; in short, they have degraded the honour of the nation."
A speech of M. de Chateaubriand’s has been read to the Emperor, on the propriety of allowing the clergy to inherit. The Emperor observed that it was rather an Academical oration than the opinion of a legislator—it had wit, but showed little judgment, and contained no views whatever.—"Allow the clergy to inherit," said he, “and nobody will die without being obliged to purchase absolution: for, whatever our opinions may be, we none of us know whither we go on leaving this world. Then must we remember our last and final account, and no one can pronounce what his feelings will be at his last hour, nor answer for the strength of his mind at that awful moment. Who can affirm that I shall not die in the arms of a confessor? and that he will not make me acknowledge myself guilty of the evil I shall not have done, and implore forgiveness for it?”—In the present instance, however, as somebody has observed, M. de Chateaubriand may be said to uphold an opinion, rather than express a sentiment of his own; and there are strong grounds for believing that, in religion, as well as in politics, he has often been known to set forth doctrines which had failed to carry conviction to his own mind.
On the article of religion, for instance, it is well known that before he wrote his Beauties of Christianity, he had published in London another work, of a tendency decidedly anti-religious.[[18]] The bookseller to whom he entrusted the sale of this work, was Dulau, formerly a benedictine monk of Soreze, who had sought refuge in London at the time of the revolution. Being a man of intelligent mind and sound judgment, he took the liberty of giving M. de Chateaubriand some good advice. He represented to him that both the place and the time were ill chosen for indulging in declamations against religion; that the moment had gone by when they were favourably received; that they had become common-place and in bad taste; and that the surest way to engage the attention of the public would be to take up the other side of the question, and advocate, on the contrary, the cause of religion. M. de Chateaubriand listened to this advice, and wrote his Beauties of Christianity; and the event proved that Dulau had not been mistaken in his choice of the moment, for it is very doubtful, if the work were to appear now, whether it would obtain the brilliant success it then met with, notwithstanding the great merit which it undoubtedly possesses.
The appointment of the author of The Beauties of Christianity to the embassy of Rome, was considered, at the time, as a very delicate attention on the part of the First Consul[Consul] to M. de Chateaubriand, who, in his turn, hailed it as a first triumph, and the presage of still greater triumphs which awaited him in the capital of the Christian world, amongst the rulers of the church. But he was soon doomed to find himself greatly mistaken, for people at Rome were highly scandalized at seeing religion transformed into romance, and the Divines condemned without hesitation The Beauties of Christianity, which they pronounced to abound in heresies.
However, M. de Chateaubriand, thoroughly convinced of his own merit, consoled himself by affecting to laugh with pity at such puerilities; and, happening to be about this time godfather to a little girl, he gave her the name of Atala; by this name, however, the priest positively refused to christen her, whilst M. de Chateaubriand, in his turn, insisted with all the obstinacy of an author and all the pride of an ambassador. This affair made a noise, and M. de Chateaubriand laid a complaint before the Cardinal-governor; who decided in favour of the priest; and moreover, felt highly offended on the occasion: for M. de Chateaubriand, fancying that his services in the cause of religion had given him a right to assume the tone of one initiated in the secrets of the church, concluded his argument with the Cardinal by saying: “That it was very ridiculous that such obstacles should be thrown in his way; for,” added he, “between ourselves, your Eminence must know that between Atala and any other Saint, there is no great difference.”
The Emperor was highly entertained by these anecdotes, which, he said, were quite new to him, and the person who related them observed that, although he could not vouch for their authenticity, yet he had no doubt of it in his own mind, having heard them from one of the persons who succeeded M. de Chateaubriand at the court of Rome.
In politics M. de Chateaubriand has been alternately seen amongst the adherents and opponents of Napoleon; and the Emperor charges him, when in his service, with malevolence and want of integrity, particularly at the time of his embassy to the old King of Sardinia at Rome.
During the disastrous event of 1814, he made himself conspicuous by writing pamphlets so outrageously violent and virulent, and disgraced by such barefaced calumnies, that they excited feelings of disgust. He no doubt must regret having been the author of them, and would not now degrade his talents by such writings.
Some years before our disasters, the Emperor, reading one day some fragments of this author’s works, expressed his surprise that he was not a member of the Institute. These words acted as a powerful recommendation in favour of M. de Chateaubriand, who hastened to put himself in the list as a candidate, and was almost unanimously chosen.
According to one of the invariable rules of the Institute, the candidate newly chosen was to make a speech in praise of the member to whom he was then succeeding; but M. de Chateaubriand, persuaded, that for a man who had once occupied the attention of the public, the surest way to acquire celebrity was to leave the beaten track, and strike into a new path to fame, reversed this custom by devoting part of his speech to stigmatise the political principles of M. Chenier his predecessor, and proscribe him as a regicide. His speech was a complete political argument, discussing the restoration of monarchy and the judgment and death of Louis XVI.; the whole Institute was in an uproar, some of the members refusing to listen to a speech which appeared to them indecorous, and others, on the contrary, insisting upon its being read. From the Institute the dispute spread rapidly through the different circles of Paris, which were full of the debate, and divided in opinion on the subject; and at last reached the ears of the Emperor, to whom every thing was carried, and who wished to be informed of every thing. He ordered the speech to be shown to him, pronounced it to be extravagant in the extreme, and instantly forbade its publication. It so happened that one of the members of the Institute, who had taken a lively part in the discussion, and voted for the reading of the speech, was also one of the great officers of the Emperor’s household; and the Emperor took advantage of this circumstance to manifest his opinion, by addressing him in the following manner at one of his couchers:—"How long is it, sir," said he, with the utmost severity, "since the Institute has presumed to take the character of a political assembly? The province of the Institute is to produce poetry and to censure faults of language; let it beware how it forsakes the domain of literature, or I shall take measures to bring it back within its proper limits. And is it possible that you, sir, have sanctioned such an intemperate harangue by your approbation? If M. de Chateaubriand is insane, or disposed to malevolence, a mad-house may cure him, or punishment correct him; yet it may be that the opinions he has pronounced are conscientiously his own, and he is not obliged to surrender them to my policy, which is unknown to him; but with you the case is totally different—you are constantly near my person, you are acquainted with all my acts, you know my will; there may be an excuse in M. de Chateaubriand’s favour, there can be none in yours. Sir, I hold you guilty, I consider your conduct as criminal: it tends to bring us back to the days of disorder and confusion, anarchy and bloodshed. Are we then banditti? And am I but an usurper? Sir, I did not ascend the throne by hurling another from it; I found the crown; I picked it up out of the kennel, and the nation placed it on my head: respect the nation’s act. To submit facts that have so recently occurred to public discussion in the present circumstances, is to court fresh convulsions, and be an enemy to the public tranquillity. The restoration of monarchy is veiled in mystery, and must remain so; wherefore then, I pray, this new proposed proscription of conventionalists and regicides? Why are subjects of so delicate a nature again brought to light? To God alone it must belong to pronounce upon what is no longer within the reach of the judgment of men! Are you to be more scrupulous than the Empress? Her interests are as dear as yours can be in this question, and much more direct, yet she has asked no questions, she has made no enquiries; take example from her moderation.
"Have I then lost the fruit of all my labours? have all my efforts been of so little avail that, as soon as my presence no longer restrains you, you are ready to cut one another’s throats?" And, in speaking thus, he paced the room with rapid strides, and, striking his forehead with his hand, exclaimed: "Alas! poor France, long yet must thou need the care of a guardian.
“I have done all in my power,” continued he, "to quell all your dissensions; to unite all parties has been the constant object of my solicitude. I have made all meet under the same roof, sit at the same board, and drink of the same cup. I have a right to expect that you will second my endeavours.
"Since I have taken the reins of government, have I ever inquired into the lives, actions, opinions, or writings of any one?—Imitate my forbearance.
“I have never had but one aim, never asked but this one question; will you sincerely assist me in promoting the true interest of France? and all those who have answered affirmatively have been placed by me in a defile of granite and without outlet on either side, through which I have urged them on to the other extremity, where my finger pointed to the honour, the glory, and the splendour of France.”
This reprimand was so severe that the person to whom it was addressed, a man of honour and delicate feelings, determined upon asking an audience the next day, in order to tender his resignation. He was admitted to the presence of the Emperor, who immediately said to him: “My dear sir, you are come on account of the conversation of yesterday; you felt hurt on the occasion, and I have felt not less so; but it was a piece of advice which I thought it right to give to more than one person; if it has the desired effect of producing some public good, we must neither of us regret the circumstance; think no more about it.” And he spoke of something else.
Thus would the Emperor often censure whole bodies in the person of one single individual; and, in order to strike with greater awe, he did it in a most solemn and imposing manner. But the anger which he sometimes shewed in public, and of which so much has been said, was only feigned, and put on for the moment. The Emperor affirmed that by such means he had often deterred many from the commission of a fault, and spared himself the necessity of punishing.
One day, at one of his grand audiences, he attacked a Colonel with the utmost vehemence, and quite in a tone of anger, upon some slight disorders of which his regiment had been guilty towards the inhabitants of the countries they had passed through, in returning to France. During the reprimand, the Colonel, thinking the punishment out of all proportion to the fault of which he was accused, repeatedly endeavoured to excuse himself; but the Emperor, without interrupting his speech, said to him in an under-tone, “Very well, but hold your tongue; I believe you: but say nothing:” and when he afterwards saw him in private, he said to him: “When I thus addressed you, I was chastising, in your person, certain Generals whom I saw near you, and who, had I spoken to them direct, would have been found deserving of the lowest degradation, and perhaps of something worse.”
But it sometimes happened, also, that the Emperor was publicly appealed to: I have witnessed several instances of this kind.
One day at St. Cloud, at the grand audience which was held every Sunday, a Sub-prefect, or some other public officer of Piedmont, who was standing by my side, addressed the Emperor in a loud tone of voice and with the utmost emotion, calling for justice, asserting that he had been falsely accused, and unjustly condemned and dismissed from the service. “Apply to my ministers,” answered the Emperor. “No, Sire, I wish to be judged by you.” “That is impossible, my time is wholly absorbed with the general interests of the Empire, and my ministers are appointed to take into consideration the particular cases of individuals.” “But they will condemn me.” “For what reason?” “Because every body is against me.” “Why?” “Because I love you—to love you, Sire, is a sufficient motive to inspire every one with hatred.” All the bystanders were disconcerted at this answer, and red with confusion; but the Emperor replied, with the utmost calmness, “This is rather a strange assertion, sir, but I am willing to hope that you are mistaken,” and he passed on to the next person. On another occasion also, on the parade, a young officer stepped out of the ranks, in extreme agitation, to complain that he had been ill-used, slighted, and passed over, and that he had been five years a Lieutenant, without being able to obtain promotion. “Calm yourself,” said the Emperor, “I was seven years a Lieutenant, and yet you see that a man may push himself forward for all that.” Every body laughed, and the young officer, suddenly cooled by those few words, returned to his place. Nothing was more common than to see private individuals attack the Emperor, and hold out against him, and I have often seen him thus sharply and warmly disputed with, and unable to silence his opponent, give up the contest by addressing another person, or by turning the conversation to another subject.
It may be observed, as a general principle, that, however violent the Emperor’s actions might appear, they were always the result of calculation. “When one of my ministers,” said he, “or some other great personage had been guilty of a fault of so grave a nature that it became absolutely necessary for me to be very angry, I always took care in that case to have a third person present to witness the scene that was to ensue; for it was a general maxim, with me, that when I resolved to strike a blow it must be felt by many at the same time; the immediate object of my resentment did not feel more incensed against me on that account, and the bystander, whose embarrassed appearance was highly ludicrous, did not fail to run and circulate, most discreetly, as far as he could, all that he had seen and heard. A salutary terror ran thus from vein to vein through the body social: a new impulse was given to the march of affairs; I had less to punish, and a great deal of public good was obtained without inflicting much private hardship.”