When the Emperor visited Amsterdam, the people, he said, were very hostile to him; but he soon completely ingratiated himself in the public favour. He declined being attended by any other guard than the guard of honour belonging to the city; and this mark of confidence immediately gained him the esteem of the Dutch. He constantly appeared among every class of citizens. On one occasion he addressed a crowd of people in the following blunt manner:—“It is said that you are discontented—but why? France has not conquered, but adopted, you: you are excluded from no benefits which are enjoyed by the French; you are a portion of the same family, and participate in all its advantages. Consider now: I have selected my Prefects, Chamberlains, and Councillors of State from amongst you in a just proportion to the amount of your population, and I have augmented my guard with your Dutch guard. You complain of distress; but, in this respect, France has still greater reason to be dissatisfied. We all suffer, and we must continue to do so until the common enemy, the tyrant of the sea, the vampire of your trade, shall be brought to reason. You complain of the sacrifices you have made; but come to France and see all that you still possess beyond what we do, and then, perhaps, you will deem yourselves less unfortunate. Why not rather[rather] congratulate yourselves on the circumstances that have brought about your union with France. In the present state of Europe, what would you be, if left to yourselves?—The slaves of all the world. Instead of which, identified as you are with France, you will one day possess the whole trade of the great Empire.” Then, assuming a tone of gaiety, he said:—“I have done every thing in my power to please you. Have I not sent you as a Governor precisely the man who suits you—the good and pacific Lebrun. You condole with him, he condoles with you: you bewail your distresses together. What more could I do for you?” At these words the assembly burst into a loud fit of laughter. The Emperor had secured the good graces of the multitude.—“However,” said he, “let us hope that the present state of things will not last long. Believe me, I am as anxious for a change as you can be. Every man of discernment among you must be aware that it is neither my wish, nor for my interest, that matters should remain as they now are.”
The Emperor left the people of Amsterdam full of enthusiasm for him; and he, on his part, carried away impressions decidedly in their favour. Previously to his journey he had often complained that whosoever he sent to Holland immediately became a Dutchman. After his return, that circumstance occurred to his recollection in the Council of State, and he said that he had himself become a Dutchman. One day, when a member of the Council spoke slightingly of the Dutch, the Emperor said, “Gentlemen, you may be more agreeable than they; but I can wish you nothing better than to be possessed of their moral qualities.”
After dinner, some one happened to mention the date of the day, the 3rd of September; upon which the Emperor made some very remarkable observations; among which were the following:—“This,” said he, “is the anniversary of horrid and appalling executions, of a repetition, in miniature, of Saint-Bartholomew’s day: less disgraceful, certainly, because fewer victims were sacrificed, and because the atrocities were not committed under the sanction of the Government, which, on the contrary, used its endeavours to punish the crime. It was committed by the mob of Paris; an unbridled power, which rivalled, and even controlled, the Legislature.
“The atrocities of the 3rd of September were the result of fanaticism rather than of absolute brutality: the authors of the massacres put to death one of their own party, for having committed theft during the executions. This dreadful event,” continued the Emperor, “arose out of the force of circumstances and the spirit of the moment. No political change ever takes place unattended by popular fury; the people are never exposed to danger, without committing disorders and sacrificing victims. The Prussians entered the French territory; and the people, before they advanced to meet them, resolved to take revenge on their adherents in Paris. Probably, this circumstance was not without its influence on the safety of France. Who can doubt that if, during recent events, the friends of the invaders had been the victims of similar horrors, France would have fallen under the yoke of foreigners? But this could not have happened, for we had become legitimate. The duration of authority, our victories, our treaties, the re-establishment of our old manners, had rendered our government regular. We could not plunge into the same horrors as had been committed by the multitude; for my part, I neither could nor would be a King of the mob.
“No social revolution ever takes place unaccompanied by violence. Every revolution of this kind is at first merely a revolt. Time and success alone can exalt and render it legitimate; but still it can never be brought about without outrage. If people enjoying authority and fortune are required to relinquish these advantages, they of course resist: force is then resorted to; they are compelled to yield. In France this point was gained by the lantern and public executions. The reign of terror commenced on the 4th of August, with the abolition of titles of nobility, tithes, and feudal rights, the wrecks of which were scattered among the multitude, who then, for the first time, understood and felt really interested in the Revolution. Before this period there was so much of dependence and religious spirit among the people that many doubted whether the crops would ripen as usual without the King and the tithes.
“A revolution,” concluded the Emperor, “is one of the greatest evils by which mankind can be visited. It is the scourge of the generation by which it is brought about; and all the advantages it procures cannot make amends for the misery with which it embitters the lives of those who participate in it. It enriches the poor, who still remain dissatisfied; and it impoverishes the rich, who cannot forget their downfal. It subverts every thing; and, at its commencement, brings misery to all and happiness to none.
“Beyond a doubt, true social happiness consists in the harmony and the peaceful possession of the relative enjoyments of each class of people. In regular and tranquil times, every individual has his share of felicity: the cobbler in his stall is as content as the King on his throne; the soldier is not less happy than the general. The best-founded revolutions, at the outset, bring universal destruction in their train; the advantages they may produce are reserved for a future age. Ours seems to have been an irresistible fatality: it was a moral eruption, which could no more be prevented than a physical eruption. When the chemical combinations necessary to produce the latter are complete, it bursts forth: in France the moral combinations which produce a revolution had arrived at maturity, and the explosion accordingly took place.”
We asked the Emperor whether he thought it would have been possible to suppress the Revolution in its birth; and he replied that, if not impossible, the attempt would at least have been difficult. “Perhaps,” said he “the storm might have been laid or averted by some great Machiavelian act; by striking with one hand the great ringleaders, and with the other making concessions to the nation, granting freely the reformation required by the age, part of which had already been mentioned in the famous royal sitting. And yet, after all,” he observed, “this would only have been guiding and directing the Revolution.” He thought that some other plan of the same kind might perhaps have succeeded on the 10th of August, if the King had remained triumphant. “These two periods,” he said, were the only ones which afforded any chance, however desperate; for, at the affair of Versailles, the people had not yet entirely shaken off their allegiance, and on the 10th of August they were already beginning to be tired of disorder. But those who were chiefly interested in quelling the revolutionary spirit were not adequate to encounter the difficulties of the moment.”
The Emperor then rapidly ran over the series of errors committed during this period. “The line of conduct then pursued,” said he, “was truly pitiable. Louis XVI. should have had a prime minister, and M. Necker under him in the finance department. Prime ministers seem to have been invented for the last reigns of the French monarchy; and yet the prevailing false notions and vanity of the time caused them to be dispensed with.”
A great deal was said respecting the equivocal conduct of several great personages during this critical period, and the Emperor said: “We condemn Louis XVI.; but, independently of his weakness, he was placed in peculiar circumstances. He was the first monarch on whom the experiment of modern principles was tried. His education, his innate ideas, led him to believe sincerely that all that he defended, either openly or secretly, belonged to him of right. There might be a sort of honesty even in his want of faith, if I may so express myself. At a subsequent period, the same conduct would have been inexcusable, and even reprehensible. Add to all this that Louis XVI. had every body against him, and one may form an idea of the innumerable difficulties which Fate had accumulated on that unhappy Prince. The misfortunes of the Stuarts, which have excited such deep interest, were not more severe.”