LIFE IN PARIS.
Although Morris entered into the social life of Paris with all the zest
natural to his pleasure-loving character, yet he was far too
clear-headed to permit it to cast any glamour over him. Indeed, it is
rather remarkable that a young provincial gentleman, from a raw, new,
far-off country, should not have had his head turned by being made
somewhat of a lion in what was then the foremost city of the civilized
world. Instead of this happening, his notes show that he took a
perfectly cool view of his new surroundings, and appreciated the
over-civilized, aristocratic society, in which he found himself, quite
at its true worth. He enjoyed the life of the salon very much, but it
did not in the least awe or impress him; and he was of too virile fibre,
too essentially a man, to be long contented with it alone. He likewise
appreciated the fashionable men, and especially the fashionable women,
whom he met there; but his amusing comments on them, as shrewd as they
are humorous, prove how little he respected their philosophy, and how
completely indifferent he was to their claims to social preeminence.
Much has been written about the pleasure-loving, highly cultured society
of eighteenth-century France; but to a man like Morris, of real ability
and with an element of sturdiness in his make-up, both the culture and
knowledge looked a little like veneering; the polish partook of
effeminacy; the pleasure so eagerly sought after could be called
pleasure only by people of ignoble ambition; and the life that was lived
seemed narrow and petty, agreeable enough for a change, but dreary
beyond measure if followed too long. The authors, philosophers, and
statesmen of the salon were rarely, almost never, men of real greatness;
their metal did not ring true; they were shams, and the life of which
they were a part was a sham. Not only was the existence hollow,
unwholesome, effeminate, but also in the end tedious: the silent,
decorous dullness of life in the dreariest country town is not more
insufferable than, after a time, become the endless chatter, the small
witticisms, the mock enthusiasms, and vapid affectations of an
aristocratic society as artificial and unsound as that of the Parisian
drawing-rooms in the last century.
But all this was delightful for a time, especially to a man who had
never seen any city larger than the overgrown villages of New York and
Philadelphia. Morris thus sums up his first impressions in a letter to a
friend: "A man in Paris lives in a sort of whirlwind, which turns him
round so fast that he can see nothing. And as all men and things are in
the same vertiginous condition, you can neither fix yourself nor your
object for regular examination. Hence the people of this metropolis are
under the necessity of pronouncing their definitive judgment from the
first glance; and being thus habituated to shoot flying, they have what
sportsmen call a quick sight. _Ex pede Herculem_. They know a wit by his
snuff-box, a man of taste by his bow, and a statesman by the cut of his
coat. It is true that, like other sportsmen, they sometimes miss; but
then, like other sportsmen too, they have a thousand excuses besides the
want of skill: the fault, you know, may be in the dog, or the bird, or
the powder, or the flint, or even the gun, without mentioning the
gunner."
Among the most famous of the salons where he was fairly constant in his
attendance was that of Madame de Stael. There was not a little contempt
mixed with his regard for the renowned daughter of Necker. She amused
him, however, and he thought well of her capacity, though in his Diary
he says that he never in his life saw "such exuberant vanity" as she
displayed about her father, Necker,--a very ordinary personage, whom the
convulsions of the time had for a moment thrown forward as the most
prominent man in France. By way of instance he mentions a couple of her
remarks, one to the effect that a speech of Talleyrand on the church
property was "excellent, admirable, in short that there were two pages
in it which were worthy of M. Necker;" and another wherein she said that
wisdom was a very rare quality, and that she knew of no one who
possessed it in a superlative degree except her father.
The first time he met her was after an exciting discussion in the
assembly over the finances, which he describes at some length. Necker
had introduced an absurd scheme for a loan. Mirabeau, who hated Necker,
saw the futility of his plan, but was also aware that popular opinion
was blindly in his favor, and that to oppose him would be ruinous; so in
a speech of "fine irony" he advocated passing Necker's proposed bill
without change or discussion, avowing that his object was to have the
responsibility and glory thrown entirely on the proposer of the measure.
He thus yielded to the popular view, while at the same time he
shouldered on Necker all the responsibility for a deed which it was
evident would in the end ruin him. It was a not very patriotic move,
although a good example of selfish political tactics, and Morris sneered
bitterly at its adoption by the representatives of a people who prided
themselves on being "the modern Athenians." To his surprise, however,
even Madame de Stael took Mirabeau's action seriously; she went into
raptures over the wisdom of the assembly in doing just what Necker said,
for "the only thing they could do was to comply with her father's wish,
and there could be no doubt as to the success of her father's plans!
Bravo!"
With Morris she soon passed from politics to other subjects. "Presented
to Madame de Stael as _un homme d'esprit_," he writes, "she singles me
out and makes _a talk_; asks if I have not written a book on the
American Constitution. 'Non, madame, j'ai fait mon devoir en assistant a
la formation de cette constitution.' 'Mais, monsieur, votre conversation
doit etre tres interessante, car je vous entends cite de toute parti.'
'Ah, madame, je ne suis pas digne de cette eloge.' How I lost my leg? It
was unfortunately not in the military service of my country. 'Monsieur,
vous avez l'air tres imposant,' and this is accompanied with that look
which, without being what Sir John Falstaff calls the 'leer of
invitation,' amounts to the same thing.... This leads us on, but in the
midst of the chat arrive letters, one of which is from her lover,
Narbonne, now with his regiment. It brings her to a little recollection,
which a little time will, I think, again banish, and a few interviews
would stimulate her to try the experiment of her fascinations even on
the native of a new world who has left one of his legs behind him."
An entry in Morris's Diary previous to this conversation shows that he
had no very high opinion of this same Monsieur de Narbonne: "He
considers a civil war inevitable, and is about to join his regiment,
being, as he says, in a conflict between the dictates of his duty and
his conscience. I tell him that I know of no duty but that which
conscience dictates. I presume that his conscience will dictate to join
the strongest side."
Morris's surmises as to his fair friend's happy forgetfulness of her
absent lover proved true: she soon became bent on a flirtation with the
good-looking American stranger, and when he failed to make any advances
she promptly made them herself; told him that she "rather invited than
repelled those who were inclined to be attentive," and capped this
exhibition of modest feminine reserve by suggesting that "perhaps he
might become an admirer." Morris dryly responded that it was not
impossible, but that, as a previous condition, she must agree not to
repel him,--which she instantly promised. Afterwards, at dinner, "we
become engaged in an animated conversation, and she desires me to speak
English, which her husband does not understand. In looking round the
room, I observe in him very much emotion, and I tell her that he loves
her distractedly, which she says she knows, and that it renders her
miserable.... I condole with her a little on her widowhood, the
Chevalier de Narbonne being absent in Franche Comte.... She asks me if I
continue to think she has a preference for Monsieur de Tonnerre. I reply
only by observing that each of them has wit enough for one couple, and
therefore I think they had better separate, and take each a partner who
is _un peu bete_. After dinner I seek a conversation with the husband,
which relieves him. He inveighs bitterly [poor, honest Swede] against
the manners of the country, and the cruelty of alienating a wife's
affection. I regret with him on general grounds that prostitution of
morals which unfits them for good government, and convince him, I think,
I shall not contribute to making him any more uncomfortable than he
already is." Certainly, according to Morris's evidence, Madame de
Stael's sensitive delicacy could only be truthfully portrayed by the
unfettered pen of a Smollett.
He was an especial _habitue_ of the salon of Madame de Flahaut, the
friend of Talleyrand and Montesquieu. She was a perfectly characteristic
type; a clever, accomplished little woman, fond of writing romances, and
a thorough-paced _intriguante_. She had innumerable enthusiasms, with
perhaps a certain amount of sincerity in each, and was a more infatuated
political schemer than any of her male friends. She was thoroughly
conversant with the politics of both court and assembly; her "precision
and justness of thought was very uncommon in either sex," and, as time
went on, made her a willing and useful helper in some of Morris's plans.
Withal she was a mercenary, self-seeking little personage, bent on
increasing her own fortune by the aid of her political friends. Once,
when dining with Morris and Talleyrand, she told them in perfect good
faith that, if the latter was made minister, "they must be sure to make
a million for her."
She was much flattered by the deference that Morris showed for her
judgment, and in return let him into not a few state secrets. She and he
together drew up a translation of the outline for a constitution for
France, which he had prepared, and through her it was forwarded to the
king. Together with her two other intimates, Talleyrand and Montesquieu,
they made just a party of four, often dining at her house; and when her
husband was sent to Spain, the dinners became more numerous than ever,
sometimes merely _parties carrees_, sometimes very large entertainments.
Morris records that, small or large, they were invariably "excellent
dinners, where the conversation was always extremely gay."
Once they planned out a ministry together, and it must be kept in mind
that it was quite on the cards that their plan would be adopted. After
disposing suitably of all the notabilities, some in stations at home,
others in stations abroad, the scheming little lady turned to Morris:
"'Enfin,' she says, 'mon ami, vous et moi nous gouvernerons la France.'
It is an odd combination, but the kingdom is actually in much worse
hands."
This conversation occurred one morning when he had called to find madame
at her toilet, with her dentist in attendance. It was a coarse age, for
all the gilding; and the coarseness was ingrained in the fibre even of
the most ultra sentimental. At first Morris felt perhaps a little
surprised at the easy familiarity with which the various ladies whose
friend he was admitted him to the privacy of boudoir and bedroom, and
chronicles with some amusement the graceful indifference with which one
of them would say to him: "Monsieur Morris me permettra de faire ma
toilette?" But he was far from being a strait-laced man,--in fact, he
was altogether too much the reverse,--and he soon grew habituated to
these as well as to much worse customs. However, he notes that the
different operations of the toilet "were carried on with an entire and
astounding regard to modesty."
Madame de Flahaut was a very charming member of the class who, neither
toiling nor spinning, were supported in luxury by those who did both,
and who died from want while so doing. At this very time, while France
was rapidly drifting into bankruptcy, the fraudulent pensions given to a
horde of courtiers, titled placemen, well-born harlots and their
offspring, reached the astounding total of two hundred and seventy odd
millions of livres. The assembly passed a decree cutting away these
pensions right and left, and thereby worked sad havoc in the gay society
that nothing could render serious but immediate and pressing
poverty,--not even the loom of the terror ahead, growing darker moment
by moment. Calling on his fascinating little friend immediately after
the decree was published, Morris finds her "_au desespoir_, and she
intends to cry very loud, she says.... She has been in tears all day.
Her pensions from Monsieur and the Comte d'Artois are stopped. On that
from the king she receives but three thousand francs,--and must
therefore quit Paris. I try to console her, but it is impossible.
Indeed, the stroke is severe; for, with youth, beauty, wit, and every
loveliness, she must quit all she loves, and pass her life with what she
abhors." In the time of adversity Morris stood loyally by the friends
who had treated him so kindly when the world was a merry one, and things
went well with them. He helped them in every way possible; his time and
his purse were always at their service; and he performed the difficult
feat of giving pecuniary assistance with a tact and considerate delicacy
that prevented the most sensitive from taking offense.
He early became acquainted with the Duchess of Orleans, wife of Philippe
Egalite, the vicious voluptuary of liberal leanings and clouded
character. He met her at the house of an old friend, Madame de
Chastellux. At first he did not fancy her, and rather held himself
aloof, being uncertain "how he would get on with royalty." The duchess,
however, was attracted by him, asked after him repeatedly, made their
mutual friends throw them together, and finally so managed that he
became one of her constant visitors and attendants. This naturally
flattered him, and he remained sincerely loyal to her always afterwards.
She was particularly anxious that he should be interested in her son,
then a boy, afterwards destined to become the citizen king,--not a bad
man, but a mean one, and rather an unkingly king even for the nineteenth
century, fertile though it has been in ignoble royalty. Morris's further
dealings with this precious youth will have to be considered hereafter.
After his first interview he notes that the duchess was "handsome enough
to punish the duke for his irregularities." He also mentioned that she
still seemed in love with her husband. However, the lady was not averse
to seeking a little sentimental consolation from her new friend, to whom
she confided, in their after intimacy, that she was weary at heart and
not happy, and--a thoroughly French touch--that she had the "besoin
d'etre aimee." On the day they first met, while he is talking to her,
"the widow of the late Duke of Orleans comes in, and at going away,
according to custom, kisses the duchess. I observe that the ladies of
Paris are very fond of each other; which gives rise to some observations
from her royal highness on the person who has just quitted the room,
which show that the kiss does not always betoken great affection. In
going away she is pleased to say that she is glad to have met me, and I
believe her. The reason is that I dropped some expressions and
sentiments a little rough, which were agreeable because they contrasted
with the palling polish she meets with everywhere. Hence I conclude that
the less I have the honor of such good company the better; for when the
novelty ceases all is over, and I shall probably be worse than insipid."
Nevertheless, the "good company" was determined he should make one of
their number. He was not very loath himself, when he found he was in no
danger of being patronized,--for anything like patronage was always
particularly galling to his pride, which was of the kind that resents a
tone of condescension more fiercely than an overt insult,--and he became
a fast friend of the house of Orleans. The duchess made him her
confidant; unfolded to him her woes about the duke; and once, when he
was dining with her, complained to him bitterly of the duke's conduct in
not paying her allowance regularly. She was in financial straits at the
time; for, though she was allowed four hundred and fifty thousand livres
a year, yet three hundred and fifty thousand were appropriated for the
house-servants, table, etc.,--an item wherein her American friend,
albeit not over-frugal, thought a very little economy would result in a
great saving.
His description of one of the days he spent at Raincy with the duchess
and her friends, gives us not only a glimpse of the life of the great
ladies and fine gentlemen of the day, but also a clear insight into the
reasons why these same highly polished ladies and gentlemen had utterly
lost their hold over the people whose God-given rulers they deemed
themselves to be.
_Dejeuner a la fourchette_ was not served till noon,--Morris
congratulating himself that he had taken a light breakfast earlier.
"After breakfast we go to mass in the chapel. In the tribune above we
have a bishop, an abbe, the duchess, her maids and some of their
friends. Madame de Chastellux is below on her knees. We are amused above
by a number of little tricks played off by Monsieur de Segur and
Monsieur de Cabieres with a candle, which is put into the pockets of
different gentlemen, the bishop among the rest, and lighted, while they
are otherwise engaged, (for there is a fire in the tribune,) to the
great merriment of the spectators. Immoderate laughter is the
consequence. The duchess preserves as much gravity as she can. This
scene must be very edifying to the domestics who are opposite to us,
and the villagers who worship below." The afternoon's amusements were
not to his taste. They all walked, which he found very hot; then they
got into bateaux, and the gentlemen rowed the ladies, which was still
hotter; and then there came more walking, so he was glad to get back to
the chateau. The formal dinner was served after five; the conversation
thereat varied between the vicious and the frivolous. There was much
bantering, well-bred in manner and excessively under-bred in matter,
between the different guests of both sexes, about the dubious episodes
in their past careers, and the numerous shady spots in their respective
characters. Epigrams and "epitaphs" were bandied about freely, some in
verse, some not; probably very amusing then, but their lustre sadly
tarnished in the eyes of those who read them now. While they were
dining, "a number of persons surround the windows, doubtless from a high
idea of the company, to whom they are obliged to look up at an awful
distance. Oh, did they but know how trivial the conversation, how very
trivial the characters, their respect would soon be changed to an
emotion entirely different!"
This was but a month before the Bastile fell; and yet, on the threshold
of their hideous doom, the people who had most at stake were incapable
not only of intelligent action to ward off their fate, but even of
serious thought as to what their fate would be. The men--the nobles, the
clerical dignitaries, and the princes of the blood--chose the church as
a place wherein to cut antics that would have better befitted a pack of
monkeys; while the women, their wives and mistresses, exchanged with
them impure jests at their own expense, relished because of the truth on
which they rested. Brutes might still have held sway at least for a
time; but these were merely vicious triflers. They did not believe in
their religion; they did not believe in themselves; they did not believe
in anything. They had no earnestness, no seriousness; their
sensibilities and enthusiasms were alike affectations. There was still
plenty of fire and purpose and furious energy in the hearts of the
French people; but these and all the other virile virtues lay not among
the noblesse, but among the ranks of the common herd beneath them,
down-trodden, bloody in their wayward ferocity, but still capable of
fierce, heroic devotion to an ideal in which they believed, and for
which they would spill the blood of others, or pour out their own, with
the proud waste of utter recklessness.
Many of Morris's accounts of the literary life of the salon read as if
they were explanatory notes to "Les Precieuses Ridicules." There was a
certain pretentiousness about it that made it a bit of a sham at the
best; and the feebler variety of salon, built on such a foundation, thus
became that most despicable of things, an imitation of a pretense. At
one of the dinners which Morris describes, the company was of a kind
that would have done no discredit to an entertainment of the great
social and literary light of Eatanswill. "Set off in great haste to dine
with the Comtesse de R., on an invitation of a week's standing. Arrive
at about a quarter past three, and find in the drawing-room some dirty
linen and no fire. While a waiting-woman takes away one, a valet lights
up the other. Three small sticks in a deep bed of ashes give no great
expectation of heat. By the smoke, however, all doubts are removed
respecting the existence of fire. To expel the smoke, a window is
opened, and, the day being cold, I have the benefit of as fresh air as
can reasonably be expected in so large a city.
"Towards four o'clock the guests begin to assemble, and I begin to
expect that, as madame is a poetess, I shall have the honor to dine with
that exalted part of the species who devote themselves to the muses. In
effect, the gentlemen begin to compliment their respective works; and,
as regular hours cannot be expected in a house where the mistress is
occupied more with the intellectual than the material world, I have a
delightful prospect of a continuance of the scene. Towards five, madame
steps in to announce dinner, and the hungry poets advance to the charge.
As they bring good appetites, they have certainly reason to praise the
feast. And I console myself with the persuasion that for this day at
least I shall escape an indigestion. A very narrow escape, too, for some
rancid butter, of which the cook had been liberal, puts me in bodily
fear. If the repast is not abundant, we have at least the consolation
that there is no lack of conversation. Not being perfectly master of the
language, most of the jests escaped me. As for the rest of the company,
each being employed either in saying a good thing, or else in studying
one to say, it is no wonder if he cannot find time to applaud that of
his neighbors. They all agree that we live in an age alike deficient in
justice and in taste. Each finds in the fate of his own works numerous
instances to justify this censure. They tell me, to my great surprise,
that the public now condemn theatrical compositions before they have
heard the first recital. And, to remove my doubts, the comtesse is so
kind as to assure me that this rash decision has been made on one of
her own pieces. In pitying modern degeneracy, we rise from the table.
"I take my leave immediately after the coffee, which by no means
dishonors the precedent repast; and madame informs me that on Tuesdays
and Thursdays she is always at home, and will always be glad to see me.
While I stammer out some return to the compliment, my heart, convinced
of my unworthiness to partake of such attic entertainments, makes me
promise never again to occupy the place from which perhaps I had
excluded a worthier personage."
Among Morris's other qualities, he was the first to develop that
peculiarly American vein of humor which is especially fond of gravely
pretending to believe without reserve some preposterously untrue
assertion,--as throughout the above quotation.
Though the society in which he was thrown interested him, he always
regarded it with half-sarcastic amusement, and at times it bored him
greatly. Meditating on the conversation in "this upper region of wits
and graces," he concludes that "the sententious style" is the one best
fitted for it, and that in it "observations with more of justice than
splendor cannot amuse," and sums up by saying that "he could not please,
because he was not sufficiently pleased."
His comments upon the various distinguished men he met are always
interesting, on account of the quick, accurate judgment of character
which they show. It was this insight into the feelings and ideas alike
of the leaders and of their followers which made his political
predictions often so accurate. His judgment of many of his
contemporaries comes marvelously near the cooler estimate of history.
He was originally prejudiced in favor of the king, poor Louis XVI., and,
believing him "to be an honest and good man, he sincerely wished him
well," but he very soon began to despise him for his weakness. This
quality was the exact one that under existing circumstances was
absolutely fatal; and Morris mentions it again and again, pronouncing
the king "a well-meaning man, but extremely weak, without genius or
education to show the way towards that good which he desires," and "a
prince so weak that he can influence very little either by his presence
or absence." Finally, in a letter to Washington, he gives a biting
sketch of the unfortunate monarch. "If the reigning prince were not the
small-beer character that he is, there can be but little doubt that,
watching events and making a tolerable use of them, he would regain his
authority; but what will you have from a creature who, situated as he
is, eats and drinks, sleeps well and laughs, and is as merry a grig as
lives? The idea that they will give him some money, which he can
economize, and that he will have no trouble in governing, contents him
entirely. Poor man! He little thinks how unstable is his situation. He
is beloved, but it is not with the sort of love which a monarch should
inspire. It is that kind of good-natured pity which one feels for a led
captive. There is besides no possibility of serving him, for at the
slightest show of opposition he gives up everything and every person."
Morris had too robust a mind to feel the least regard for mere
amiability and good intentions when unaccompanied by any of the ruder,
manlier virtues.
The Count d'Artois had "neither sense to counsel himself, nor to choose
counsellors for himself, much less to counsel others." This gentleman,
afterwards Charles X., stands as perhaps the most shining example of the
monumental ineptitude of his royal house. His fellow Bourbon, the
amiable Bomba of Naples, is his only equal for dull silliness, crass
immorality, and the lack of every manly or kingly virtue. Democracy has
much to answer for, but after all it would be hard to find, even among
the aldermen of New York and Chicago, men whose moral and mental
shortcomings would put them lower than this royal couple. To our shame
be it said, our system of popular government once let our greatest city
fall under the control of Tweed; but it would be rank injustice to that
clever rogue to compare him with the two vicious dullards whom the
opposite system permitted to tyrannize at Paris and Naples. Moreover, in
the end, we of the democracy not only overthrew the evil-doer who
oppressed us, but also put him in prison; and in the long run we have
usually meted out the same justice to our lesser criminals. Government
by manhood suffrage shows at its worst in large cities; and yet even in
these experience certainly does not show that a despotism works a whit
better, or as well.
Morris described the Count de Montmorin pithily, saying: "He has more
understanding than people in general imagine, and he means well, very
well, but he means it feebly."
When Morris came to France, Necker was the most prominent man in the
kingdom. He was a hard-working, well-meaning, conceited person, not in
the least fitted for public affairs, a banker but not a financier, and
affords a beautiful illustration of the utter futility of the popular
belief that a good business man will necessarily be a good statesman.
Accident had made him the most conspicuous figure of the government,
admired and hated, but not looked down upon; yet Morris saw through him
at a glance. After their first meeting, he writes down in his diary: "He
has the look and manner of the counting-house, and, being dressed in
embroidered velvet, he contrasts strongly with his habiliments. His bow,
his address, say, 'I am the man.' ... If he is really a very great man,
I am deceived; and yet this is a rash judgment. If he is not a laborious
man, I am also deceived." He soon saw that both the blame and the praise
bestowed on him were out of all proportion to his consequence, and he
wrote: "In their anguish [the nobles] curse Necker, who is in fact less
the cause than the instrument of their sufferings. His popularity
depends now more on the opposition he meets with from one party than any
serious regard of the other. It is the attempt to throw him down which
saves him from falling; ... as it is, he must soon fall." To Washington
he gave a fuller analysis of his character. "As to M. Necker, he is one
of those people who has obtained a much greater reputation than he has
any right to.... In his public administration he has always been honest
and disinterested; which proves well, I think, for his former private
conduct, or else it proves that he has more vanity than cupidity. Be
that as it may, an unspotted integrity as minister, and serving at his
own expense in an office which others seek for the purpose of enriching
themselves, have acquired for him very deservedly much confidence. Add
to this that his writings on finance teem with that sort of sensibility
which makes the fortune of modern romances, and which is exactly suited
to this lively nation, who love to read but hate to think. Hence his
reputation. He ... [has not] the talents of a great minister. His
education as a banker has taught him to make tight bargains, and put him
upon his guard against projects. But though he understands man as a
covetous creature, he does not understand mankind,--a defect which is
remediless. He is utterly ignorant of politics, by which I mean politics
in the great sense, or that sublime science which embraces for its
object the happiness of mankind. Consequently he neither knows what
constitution to form, nor how to obtain the consent of others to such as
he wishes. From the moment of convening the states-general, he has been
afloat upon the wide ocean of incidents. But what is most extraordinary
is that M. Necker is a very poor financier. This I know will sound like
heresy in the ears of most people, but it is true. The plans he has
proposed are feeble and inept."
A far more famous man, Talleyrand, then Bishop of Autun, he also gauged
correctly from the start, writing down that he appeared to be "a sly,
cool, cunning, ambitious, and malicious man. I know not why conclusions
so disadvantageous to him are formed in my mind, but so it is, and I
cannot help it." He was afterwards obliged to work much in common with
Talleyrand, for both took substantially the same view of public affairs
in that crisis, and were working for a common end. Speaking of his new
ally's plan respecting church property, he says: "He is bigoted to it,
and the thing is well enough; but the mode is not so well. He is
attached to this _as an author_, which is not a good sign for a man of
business." And again he criticises Talleyrand's management of certain
schemes for the finances, as showing a willingness "to sacrifice great
objects for the sake of small ones ... an inverse ratio of moral
proportion."
Morris was fond of Lafayette, and appreciated highly his courage and
keen sense of honor; but he did not think much of his ability, and
became at times very impatient with his vanity and his impractical
theories. Besides, he deemed him a man who was carried away by the
current, and could neither stem nor guide it. "I have known my friend
Lafayette now for many years, and can estimate at the just value both
his words and actions. He means ill to no one, but he is very much below
the business he has undertaken; and if the sea runs high, he will be
unable to hold the helm." And again, in writing to Washington:
"Unluckily he has given in to measures ... which he does not heartily
approve, and he heartily approves many things which experience will
demonstrate to be dangerous."
The misshapen but mighty genius of Mirabeau he found more difficulty in
estimating; he probably never rated it quite high enough. He naturally
scorned a man of such degraded debauchery, who, having been one of the
great inciters to revolution, had now become a subsidized ally of the
court. He considered him "one of the most unprincipled scoundrels that
ever lived," although of "superior talents," and "so profligate that he
would disgrace any administration," besides having so little principle
as to make it unsafe to trust him. After his death he thus sums him up:
"Vices both degrading and detestable marked this extraordinary being.
Completely prostitute, he sacrificed everything to the whim of the
moment;--_cupidus alieni prodigus sui_; venal, shameless; and yet
greatly virtuous when pushed by a prevailing impulse, but never truly
virtuous, because never under the steady control of reason, nor the
firm authority of principle. I have seen this man, in the short space of
two years, hissed, honored, hated, mourned. Enthusiasm has just now
presented him gigantic. Time and reflection will sink this stature."
Even granting this to be wholly true, as it undoubtedly is in the main,
it was nevertheless the fact that in Mirabeau alone lay the least hope
of salvation for the French nation; and Morris erred in strenuously
opposing Lafayette's going into a ministry with him. Indeed, he seems in
this case to have been blinded by prejudice, and certainly acted very
inconsistently; for his advice, and the reasons he gave for it, were
completely at variance with the rules he himself laid down to Lafayette,
with even more cynicism than common sense, when the latter once made
some objections to certain proposed coadjutors of his: "I state to him
... that, as to the objections he has made on the score of morals in
some, he must consider that men do not go into an administration as the
direct road to heaven; that they are prompted by ambition or avarice,
and therefore that the only way to secure the most virtuous is by making
it their interest to act rightly."
Morris thus despised the king, and distrusted the chief political
leaders; and, as he wrote Washington, he was soon convinced that there
was an immense amount of corruption in the upper circles. The people at
large he disliked even more than he did their advisers, and he had good
grounds, too, as the following extract from his journal shows: "July
22d. After dinner, walk a little under the arcade of the Palais Royal,
waiting for my carriage. In this period the head and body of M. de
Toulon are introduced in triumph, the head on a pike, the body dragged
naked on the earth. Afterwards this horrible exhibition is carried
through the different streets. His crime is, to have accepted a place in
the ministry. This mutilated form of an old man of seventy-five is shown
to his son-in-law, Berthier, the intendant of Paris; and afterwards he
also is put to death and cut to pieces, the populace carrying about the
mangled fragments with a savage joy. Gracious God, what a people!"
He describes at length, and most interestingly, the famous opening of
the states-general, "the beginning of the Revolution." He eyed this body
even at the beginning with great distrust; and he never thought that any
of the delegates showed especial capacity for grappling with the
terrible dangers and difficulties by which they were encompassed. He
comments on the extreme enthusiasm with which the king was greeted, and
sympathizes strongly with Marie Antoinette, who was treated with
studied and insulting coldness. "She was exceedingly hurt. I cannot help
feeling the mortification which the poor queen meets with, for I see
only the woman; and it seems unmanly to treat a woman with
unkindness.... Not one voice is heard to wish her well. I would
certainly raise mine if I were a Frenchman; but I have no right to
express a sentiment, and in vain solicit those who are near me to do
it." ... At last "the queen rises, and, to my great satisfaction, she
hears, for the first time in several months, the sound of '_Vive la
reine!_' She makes a low courtesy, and this produces a louder
acclamation, and that a lower courtesy."
The sympathy was for the woman, not the queen, the narrow-minded,
absolute sovereign, the intriguer against popular government, whose
policy was as heavily fraught with bale for the nation as was that of
Robespierre himself. The king was more than competent to act as his own
evil genius; had he not been, Marie Antoinette would have amply filled
the place.
He characterized the carrying of "that diabolical castle," the Bastile,
as "among the most extraordinary things I have met with." The day it
took place he wrote in his journal, with an irony very modern in its
flavor: "Yesterday it was the fashion at Versailles not to believe that
there were any disturbances at Paris. I presume that this day's
transactions will induce a conviction that all is not perfectly quiet."
He used the Bastile as a text when, shortly afterwards, he read a brief
lesson to a certain eminent painter. The latter belonged to that class
of artists with pen or pencil (only too plentiful in America at the
present day) who always insist on devoting their energies to depicting
subjects worn threadbare by thousands of predecessors, instead of
working in the new, broad fields, filled with picturesque material,
opened to them by their own country and its history. "The painter shows
us a piece he is now about for the king, taken from the AEneid: Venus
restraining the arm which is raised in the temple of the Vestals to shed
the blood of Helen. I tell him he had better paint the storm of the
Bastile."