François-René de Chateaubriand: Memoirs from Beyond the Grave, 1800-1815. Alex Andriesse translation. New York Review Books, 2022.
With Napoleon out of the way, Louis XVIII came to Paris, returning the Legitimist regime to France. Things did not look well to Chateaubriand, who saw Napoleon’s troops, a regiment of the Old Guard, lining the route to Notre Dame; “I cannot believe human faces and bodies have ever worn such menacing and terrible expressions” as these veteran soldiers, “the conquerors of Europe,” now “forced to salute an old king—enfeebled by time, not battle—while being guarded by an army of Russians, Austrians, and Prussians in Napoleon’s invaded capital.” “Never, it must be said, have men been put to such a test or suffered such torment.”
The monarch, his foreign allies, and his advisers had “committed an irreparable error” by allowing the French troops to remain united. They should have dissolved the army temporarily, kept the top officers on the payroll, then gradually reconstituted French forces, integrating some of Napoleon’s troops with new men. As it was, defeat followed by humiliation fostered “regrets and feelings hostile to their new leader,” along with resentment toward new recruits who had been given high ranks unearned in battle.
To this moral and military error Louis added a political one, a new constitution issued by himself, a royal charter instead of a document ratified by the people. Although the Charter of 1814 guaranteed a bicameral legislature, “taxes freely consented to, public and individual liberty, freedom of the press, freedom of religion, inviolable and sacred rights of property,” and an independent judiciary—the regime institutions of pre-Jacobin France—its origin as an act of the monarch reignited “the smoldering question of royal, as opposed to popular, sovereignty.” No one was satisfied: not the Bonapartists, whose hero had been deposed; not the republicans, who objected to the implication of Bourbon resumption of the power to make constitutional law; not the royalists themselves, who disliked the Charter’s rather un-monarchic contents. Although the Charter “was sufficient to satisfy men of conscience,” how many of those are there in any society, especially when it comes to politics? “In the end, if the Charter seemed defective, it was because the Revolution wasn’t over; the principles of equality and democracy had rooted themselves in men’s minds and worked against the monarchical order.” Chateaubriand had seen three regime changes, already: old, absolutist monarchy to constitutional monarchy; constitutional monarchy into republic; republic into “military autocracy”; military autocracy back into a constitutional monarchy. “Such metamorphoses would be repugnant were they not partly attributable to the flexibility of the French spirit,” Chateaubriand offers, with a touch of irony, having already described Napoleon as similarly chameleonlike. (“A Frenchman would shout ‘Off with my head!’ if he heard his neighbor shouting it;” reasoning having fallen into habitual disuse in politics, of what use was one’s head?) “Overjoyed” by the exile of Napoleon, who had brought down such suffering upon them, the French were not really Legitimists, either, but rather “a mob who held all manner of opinions” when it came to the question of what regime France should adopt. This would remain true for the next century and a half. In the meantime, “we Legitimists, poor devils, we were not admitted anywhere and counted for nothing” in French civil society, despite the titular reign of Louis.
In response to all of this, Chateaubriand published a new book, Political Reflections, annoying the king with his insistence that monarchy could survive only if it acknowledged popular sovereignty as the only kind acceptable in contemporary France. Fortunately, he had again won the friendship of influential woman, the Duchess of Duras, who arranged his appointment to the French embassy in Sweden, headed by Louis’s brother, King Bernadotte. (“A man protects you with what he is worth, a woman with what you are worth: that is why, of these two empires, the former is so odious and the latter so sweet.”) Before leaving, Chateaubriand witnessed the exhumation and transfer of the remains of Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette, preparatory to their transfer to the Saint-Denis cemetery, where French kings are properly buried. “Among the bones, I recognized the queen’s head by the smile she had given me at Versailles.” A memoir from beyond the grave thus encompasses a memoir from the grave, and while the moral lesson of such a memento mori is so obvious as to need no remark, Chateaubriand draws a less obvious moral-political lesson. On this matter, the Bourbons got something right. They “must be praised for having thought of Louis XVI from the moment they returned. They had to smear their forehead with his ashes before they put his crown on their heads,” in a gesture of humility, memory, and respect before the dignity of rule. At the time, Chateaubriand “wanted a statue of Louis XVI to be set upon the very spot where the martyr shed his blood,” but he now thinks otherwise. “At the present time it is to be feared that a monument raised with a view to remembering the terror of populist excesses may well instill a desire to imitate them,” evil being “more tempting than good.”
Still, the deaths’ head smile of the queen and the sight of the tombs of French kings raise questions not merely about “the vanity of human grandeur” but about “the nature of man.” “Is everything emptiness and absence in the region of the grave? Is there nothing in this nothing? Is there no life at all in the void, no thoughts at all to be had by dust?” And “in your eternal silence, oh, tombs, if tombs you be, does a man hear nothing but mocking laughter forever and ever? Is this laughter God, the only derisory reality, which will survive the imposture of the universe?” Chateaubriand can only answer: “I am a Christian.”
Unlike the elderly Bourbon now elevated to the throne, Napoleon in exile retained “the two sources from which his extraordinary life had sprung: democracy and royal power”—democracy in the sense of the ability to gather popular support, royal power in the sense of “his genius,” his virtù in the Machiavellian sense, which the Bourbon line and especially its entourage no longer possessed. “His ambition had been disappointed, not extinguished; misfortune and vengeance were rekindling its flames.” The same was true of his partisans in France whose ambition to act grew “as it became progressively clearer to them how weak the Bourbons’ character was.” Cartoons began to be published, showing eagles flying through the Tuileries Palace windows, “while a flock of turkeys doddered out through the gates.” All that the Bonapartists and Napoleon lacked was an opportunity, as “more traitors are made by events than by opinions.” As always, Napoleon was guided not by news from France but by “the faith he had in himself,” and in the event he was right. Eluding his captors on Elba, “he advances unhindered among those men and women who, a few months previous, had wanted to murder him.” “Alongside the wonder of a one-man invasion” Chateaubriand places “the torpor of the Legitimacy,” its cowardice, which spread throughout the state and “paralyzed France.” Louis managed to pull himself together to give a strong and noble speech to the Chamber of Deputies, a speech worthy of a “heroic dynasty on the verge of extinction”; students from the university schools of law and medicine rallied to his side, as did Chateaubriand (“one is never entitled to say all is lost if he has attempted nothing”). With his “ragtag collection of troops,” Napoleon would not have attempted to seize a Paris united behind the king. But his courtiers wavered, and the people did not rally. Exiled from France for twenty-three years, the Bourbon circle no longer understood the people, and the people felt little connection to the old monarchy. “Thus the impossibility of understanding or supporting each other. Religion, ideas, interests, language, earth, and heaven—everything was different for the people and the king, for they were separated by a quarter century equivalent to centuries,” thanks to the succession of regime changes the people had endured. Chateaubriand can only lament, “Why was I born into an era where I was so badly placed?… Why was I hurled into this horde of mediocrities, who took me for a fool when I spoke of courage and a revolutionary when I spoke of freedom?” (“And you, youthful generations of the moment, let twenty-three years go by, and when I am dead and buried, you, too, shall be asking yourselves what happened to the loves and illusions you cherish today.”)
The king fled to Ghent, where Chateaubriand joined him and was named Acting Minister of the Interior of the regime in exile. He took the appointment as an opportunity to propose an amendment to the Charter guaranteeing freedom of the press, “for this freedom is inseparable from any representative government.” But “I perceived the catastrophe of society,” taking “refuge from idlers and boors” in a cloister, the kind of place where The Genius of Christianity had granted him a lifetime passport. And he nursed his memories; “it seems no one can become my companion unless he has gone to the other side of the grave.” “I wandered around Ghent as I wander around everywhere, alone.”
As he consoled himself, the French once again began to long for the ruler they did not have. “The French enjoyed the sight of a sovereign, who, defeated, had borne the chains of a man bearing, victorious, the yoke of a dynasty,” a dynasty from whom “all the royal lines of Europe” derived. In Ghent a hostess trapped him into dining with Joseph Fouché, former Jacobin and ardent advocate of Louis XVI’s execution, former and future Minister of Police under the Directory, then Napoleon, and soon Napoleon once again. As cynical a habitual turncoat as they come, he earns Chateaubriand’s sharpest irony: “regicide was the peak of his innocence.” “Garrulous, like all revolutionaries, beating the air with empty phrases” [1] full of ‘fate,’ ‘the law of things,’ ‘progress,’ ‘the march of society,’ ‘the justice of success,’ and similar resounding general ideas brandished to impress the easily impressed. “M. Fouché never forgave me my dryness or the minimal effect he had on me….The Jacobins detest men who ignore their atrocities and deride their murders; their pride is provoked, like that of writers whose talents one contests.”
But “Ghent was merely a dressing room behind the scenes of the show being put on in Paris,” where Napoleon ruled for his One Hundred Days after his seizure of the capital. By now, “the spell was broken” since “the few moments in which the laws had reappeared” under Louis and his Charter, however dubious, “were enough to make the reestablishment of arbitrary rule unimaginable.” “Despotism seems like freedom when it takes the place of anarchy,” which Napoleon had done at the beginning of his rule, “but it remains what it truly is when it takes the place of liberty.” Napoleon now “could do nothing with victory, which had turned its back on him, and nothing for order, since it existed without him.” The factions that preceded him continued under his faltering rule; he was reduced to “proclaim[ing] the sovereignty of the people in which he did not believe.” French internal politics could not topple him, however, since “the power combating him was as exhausted as he was,” bringing on “only a battle between ghosts.” Regime changes and the timeserving prevarications of those, like Fouché (merely an exceptionally conspicuous example of the type) left Napoleon with no one to trust, a “great man” standing “alone among all those traitors, men and fate, on a reeling earth, beneath a hostile sky, face-to-face with his destiny and the judgment of God.” [2]
At the Congress of Vienna, Czar Alexander agreed to an alliance with the Bourbons, Austria, and England against Bonaparte, who no longer had anything like the military power he’d wielded during his first reign. Heading toward Waterloo, the French army consisted of only 70,000 men. Chateaubriand wondered, “Were lots being cast upon the world, as upon Christ’s vesture?” If the Allies won, wouldn’t French glory be lost? And “if Napoleon won, what would become of our liberty?” He confesses that his heart was with France and Napoleon, against the “foreign domination” that he expected to result from the victory of a coalition now led by the British and their general, Wellington (“a mind seeing nothing in the French year of 1793 but the antecedent English year of 1649”). A restoration of the Bourbons under those circumstances would de-legitimatize Legitimacy. This time, “Alexander was not there at the beginning to temper the triumph and curb the insolence of victory.”
The Allied victory (at a cost of 25,000 French soldiers, 18,000 Allied)—there “was not a family in England who did not mourn”—came after the “two armies crossed iron and fire with a bravery and ferocity animated by ten centuries of national enmity.” Napoleon “threw himself upon his horse and fled” to Paris, not before raging at the French officer who urged him to do so. There, he “abdicated so as not to be forced to abdicate,” uselessly declaring his young son his successor as Emperor Napoleon II. That wasn’t going to work, although “all the omens of the Second Restoration” were almost equally bad: “Bonaparte had returned leading four hundred Frenchmen, while Louis XVIII was returning behind four hundred thousand foreigners.” Understanding that, Chateaubriand declined the position of advisor to the king, despite also understanding that he was ceding the position to the despicable Talleyrand. “Had I remained with the king, the combination of the Talleyrand and Fouché ministry would have become almost impossible; had the Restoration begun with a moral and honorable ministry, the future might have been difference.” He can only sigh, “History is full of tangles like this one.” Soon, he would witness the arrival of both these enemies at the king’s chambers: “Vice, leaning on the arm of Crime.” “The loyal regicide,” Fouché, “on his knees, put the hands that ordered the beheading of Louis XVI into the hands of the martyred king’s brother, and the apostate bishop,” Talleyrand, “stood surety for this oath.”
While “everyone spoke of the constitution, liberty, equality, the rights of the nations,” “no one wanted these things; they were merely fashionable verbiage.” “Material interests predominated.” Royalists judged Chateaubriand too much the lover of liberty, whereas the republicans resented him for being “too contemptuous of their crimes.” When he told the king that the “monarchy is finished,” Louis admitted, “Well, Monsieur Chateaubriand, I believe you are right.”
Napoleon would not be the one to finish it. At Malmaison, stripped of power, awaiting exile, “he could wonder whether, with a little more moderation, he might have held on to his happiness.” He would have no real companions with whom to discuss the matter. Having derived his authority from his successes, in failure those who accepted the example abandoned their teacher for the next successful set of men. “Like most despots, he was on good terms with his servants, but deep down he cared for no one. A solitary man, all he needed was himself. Misfortune did nothing but restore him to the desert that was his life.” After his presidency of the American republic, Washington returned to his home to live as a farmer among the farmers “he had freed.” Napoleon hadn’t defended the French as citizens; in exile, he could have neither equals nor subjects. On the distant island of St. Helena, he squabbled with his British captors, famous but miserable. “I, who believe in the legitimacy of good deeds and the sovereignty of misery, had I served Bonaparte, would not have left him. With my fidelity, I would have shown him the falsity of his political principles. Sharing his disgrace, I would have stayed by his side, like a living contradiction of his barren doctrines and the limited value of the rule of prosperity.” But of course Napoleon was incapable of accepting such a friendship, of any friendship; “a solitary man, all he needed was himself,” his soul a monument to self-sufficiency wrongly understood.
Writing some thirty years later, Chateaubriand appraises the long-dead tyrant. “The greatness of Napoleon’s heart did not match the greatness of his head.” [3] “A poet in action, an immense genius in war, an indefatigable, able, and intelligent mind in administration, and an industrious and rational administrator,” “as a politician he will always seem deficient in the eyes of statesmen.” His murder of the Duc d’Enghien was an act “contrary to all prudence” as well as God, and it must be understood as “the secret leaven of the discords that later arose between Alexander and Napoleon as well as between Prussia and France.” Alexander was a Christian prince, Prussia (in those days) a Christian nation. His offenses committed against Orthodox and Protestant Christians matched his offense against Catholicism; his imprisonment of the pope and annexation of the Papal States were nothing but “a tyrannical caprice, which lost him the advantage of passing himself off as the restorer of religion.” Deranged by his spectacular military successes, he lacked the moderation and prudence that would have told him to stop at the invasion of Russia; his refusal to heed the danger of the Russian winter, his hyper-modern defiance of nature itself, brought on nature’s just revenge. As a result, “he lost Europe as swiftly as he had seized it.” “He had the world at his feet, and all he got out of it was prison for himself, exile for his family, and the loss of all his conquests as well as a piece of old French territory.”
All of these errors “originate in Bonaparte’s shortcomings as a politician.” After making an alliance, he would change its terms, “constantly showing a tendency to take back what he had given, and never letting anyone forget the oppressor for a moment.” After making a conquest, he would move on to the next one, without troubling to reform the regime of his latest nation he had acquired. By so doing, he built not stable ruling institutions but a “poetic edifice of victories, lacking a foundation and kept in the air only by his genius,” and edifice that “fell the moment his genius deserted him.” He wanted to rule the world but “never troubled his head about how to preserve what he ruled.” It is noteworthy that Chateaubriand here identifies exclusively political failures, without recapitulating Bonaparte’s moral flaws. But the moral flaws did cause the political failures: “One of the things that most contributed to rendering Napoleon so repellent in his lifetime was his penchant for debasing everything,” a penchant owing to his “monstrous pride and incessant affectation.” He was an actor, “his own mime.”
What, then, motivated him? Libido dominandi, the vice Augustine regards as the Satanic passion. “Domination incarnate” and “dry as a bone,” Bonaparte “had nothing good-natured about him,” finding “within himself no word, only actions—and actions ready to become hostile at the slightest sign of independence.” That is, he had neither philosophic logos nor Christian Logos. He ruined Europe’s legitimate monarchs not to replace them with republics but with himself, with tyranny. True, he came to power initially on the wave of Jacobin ‘republicanism’—itself tyrannical—but to say, as some were doing in the 1840s, that he intended to act as a modern version of the Roman dictator, tyrannizing in order to found or to defend republican regimes, tyrannizing in order to restore liberty, “proves only one thing: how easily reason can be abused.” The same sort of sophistry animates those who pretend that the Terror “was a time of great humanity”; in fact, its leaders called “for the abolition of the death penalty while they were killing half the world.” The same sophism, it might be added, reappeared in the arguments of apologists for the genocidal tyrannies of the twentieth century.
Eric Voegelin has asked how it was that the German people allowed themselves to follow Hitler. [4] Chateaubriand addresses that question respecting the French. The French, he maintains, love not freedom but authority. “Equality alone is their idol,” and as Chateaubriand’s nephew, Alexis de Tocqueville, had already seen, “equality and tyranny have secret links.” Napoleon “pleased the French” by exercising military authority and “seat[ing] common people beside him” on the imperial throne. “A proletarian king, he humiliated kings and nobles in his antechambers.” By so inflating the pride and vanity of the French, he quietly set up another aristocracy, one beholden to himself, all the while teaching “us all to worship brute force.” In this he was in truth “the mortal enemy of equality,” the equality he made a show of delivering. “The wrong that true wisdom will never forgive Bonaparte is his having habituated society to passive obedience, driven mankind back to times of moral degradation, and perhaps bastardized human character to such a degree that it is impossible to say when hearts will begin to throb with generous feelings again….Bonaparte has deranged the future.” “The despotism that Bonaparte left hanging in the air will come down and enclose us like a fortress.”
Brute force is a false god. Bonaparte sacrificed as many as three million French soldiers to it. To say that today’s generations flourish, that such calamities “were for the salvation of all,” ignores the reality: “He did not make France. France made him.” The justification of Chateaubriand’s memoir may be seen here. “No talent, no eminence will ever induce me to consent to an authority that can, with one word, deprive me of my independence, my home, my friends.” But “without liberty, the world is nothing,” as it “makes life worthwhile.” “Even if I should find myself the last man defending it, I will never cease proclaiming its rights.” By committing “crimes against liberty,” Napoleon committed crimes “against the human race.”
The true honor is not in Napoleonic triumphalism but in martyrdom at the hands of that triumphalism. Chateaubriand regards his defense of liberty in his memoir as likely to fail. “The world belongs to Bonaparte,” to the legend of Bonaparte. “What the ravager was unable to conquer, his fame usurps. While alive, he may have failed to win the world, but dead, he possesses it.” As the despot of our memories, reigning as a “fantastical hero” held up by “poets’ whims, soldiers’ estimations, and the people’s stories,” by the “busts and portraits of Napoleon in [French] houses, palaces, cottages.” “Today there is universal agreement we should accept the shackles he throws on us from beyond the grave,” for “how can a free government come into being, when he has corrupted the principle of liberty in the hearts of humanity”? As of the 1840s in France, even in Europe, the authoritative memoirs from beyond the grave are not Chateaubriand’s but Napoleon’s. He acted, spectacularly, allowing the artists and the people to do the rest by telling everyone, including themselves, that his greatness was also goodness, that the soul of libido dominandi must have been a soul of magnanimity, too. “Fortunately for him, he did not write his life. He would have diminished it.”
On St. Helena, Napoleon eventually “takes to bed and does not rise again.” No Christ, he nonetheless professed on his deathbed, with a crucifix on his chest, “I die in the apostolic and Roman religion, in the bosom of which I was born more than fifty years ago.” That he did not live as he was born and died may be seen in the world he left behind, a world without the Legitimist—Christian and law-governed—monarchies of pre-revolutionary Europe. “The map of the world has changed; we have had to learn a new geography,” a political geography in which, “separated from their legitimate sovereigns, nations have been thrown to rulers picked at random,” picked democratically in the manner Plato’s Socrates’ ascribes to democratic regimes, by a lottery of one sort or another. Thanks to this egalitarianism, “his will be the last of the great individual lives. From now on, nothing will dominate in our minor and equalized societies. Napoleon’s shade will stand alone at the far end of the devastated old world, like the phantom of the deluge at the edge of its abyss.” Eventually, Napoleon’s bones were transferred to Paris, but they “will not reproduce his genius, they will teach his despotism to mediocre soldiers.” Napoleon III comes to mind.
As he died in exile, Napoleon manifested a glimmer of the magnanimity that had otherwise eluded him. When Chateaubriand wrote an article, saying that “the nations have called Bonaparte a scourge, but God’s scourges retain something of the eternity and grandeur of the divine wrath from which they emanate”—the dry bones the prophet Ezekial hears God promise he will breathe life back into—Napoleon told General Montholon, who accompanied him to St. Helena, that the restored monarchy should have put Chateaubriand in charge of affairs, not Talleyrand and Fouché. “There is no question that all that is great and national must befit his genius,” Napoleon continued; “he would have indignantly rejected the shameful acts of the administration of those days.” And more: “Nature has accorded Chateaubriand a sacred fire,” a prophetic insight, as his works attest. Admitting that Bonaparte’s remarks pandered to his pride, Chateaubriand rightly ventures to remark that “many little men to whom I have rendered eminent services”—surely including Talleyrand, quite possibly Louis XVIII—have “not judged me so favorably as the giant whose power I had dared to attack.”
It is telling that Bonaparte did not reflect upon what good Chateaubriand might have done him, had the Emperor brought him into his confidence. If Louis could not, owing to his mediocrity—having dismissed Chateaubriand as a worse than useless poet—Napoleon, the embodiment of libido dominandi, perhaps distanced himself out of a need not to reflect. Napoleon restricted his thinking to vulpine calculation. On St. Helena, had he paused, speaking of Louis but thinking of himself, as well? Chateaubriand never suggests it, but it is not impossible. [5]
He has a larger consideration in mind. “Napoleon brought the era of the past to a close. He made war in such a way, on such a scale, that it no longer interests mankind. He slammed the doors to the Temple of Janus impetuously behind him, and behind those doors he piled up stacks of corpses, so that they would never be opened again.” True, but only in Europe, and only for a hundred years.
And much more than that. He recalls visiting Cannes, near where Napoleon landed upon returning from Elba. He recalls Saint Honorat, who landed on the nearby Lérins Islands in the fifth century and founded a monastery, inaugurating Christian civilization in France. “Paganism vanished and a new civilization was born in the West.” “Fourteen hundred years later, Bonaparte came to finish that civilization in the very place where the saint had started it.” “The last of an exhausted race,” Chateaubriand could not halt Christendom’s ruin. At most, he slowed it. “Ah, if only I was as carefree as one of those old waterfront Arabs I saw in Africa,” who “while away their final hours watching the beautiful flamingos fly through the azure over the ruins of Carthage.” “Lulled by the murmur of the waves,” like the waves on the beach at Cannes, “they forget their existence and, in a hushed voice, sing a song of the sea: they are going to die.”
Notes
- Editor/translator Alex Andriesse marvelously cites the Biblical allusion: “So fight I, not as one that beateth the air” (I Corinthians 9:26).
- “It is hard to be born in times of improbity, in days when two men chatting together must be on guard against using certain words for fear of causing offense or making the other man blush.” So then, and so in more recent times, in other countries.
- De Gaulle to André Malraux: “What do you think of the Emperor?” Malraux: “A very great mind, and a rather small soul.”
- Eric Voegelin: Hitler and the Germans (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1999). Reviewed on this website; see “Voegelin, Hitler, and the Germans” in the “Philosophers” section.
- Malraux regretted that Chateaubriand did not visit Bonaparte on St. Helena.
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