Astræa Redux.
A paradoxical philosopher, carrying to the uttermost length that
aphorism of Montesquieu’s, “Happy the people whose annals are
tiresome,” has said, “Happy the people whose annals are vacant.”
In which saying, mad as it looks, may there not still be found
some grain of reason? For truly, as it has been written, “Silence
is divine,” and of Heaven; so in all earthly things too there is
a silence which is better than any speech. Consider it well, the
Event, the thing which can be spoken of and recorded, is it not,
in all cases, some disruption, some solution of continuity? Were
it even a glad Event, it involves change, involves loss (of
active Force); and so far, either in the past or in the present,
is an irregularity, a disease. Stillest perseverance were our
blessedness; not dislocation and alteration,—could they be
avoided.
The oak grows silently, in the forest, a thousand years; only in
the thousandth year, when the woodman arrives with his axe, is
there heard an echoing through the solitudes; and the oak
announces itself when, with a far-sounding crash, it _falls_. How
silent too was the planting of the acorn; scattered from the lap
of some wandering wind! Nay, when our oak flowered, or put on its
leaves (its glad Events), what shout of proclamation could there
be? Hardly from the most observant a word of recognition. These
things _befell_ not, they were slowly _done;_ not in an hour, but
through the flight of days: what was to be said of it? This hour
seemed altogether as the last was, as the next would be.
It is thus everywhere that foolish Rumour babbles not of what was
done, but of what was misdone or undone; and foolish History
(ever, more or less, the written epitomised synopsis of Rumour)
knows so little that were not as well unknown. Attila Invasions,
Walter-the-Penniless Crusades, Sicilian Vespers, Thirty-Years
Wars: mere sin and misery; not work, but hindrance of work! For
the Earth, all this while, was yearly green and yellow with her
kind harvests; the hand of the craftsman, the mind of the thinker
rested not: and so, after all, and in spite of all, we have this
so glorious high-domed blossoming World; concerning which, poor
History may well ask, with wonder, Whence _it_ came? She knows so
little of it, knows so much of what obstructed it, what would
have rendered it impossible. Such, nevertheless, by necessity or
foolish choice, is her rule and practice; whereby that paradox,
“Happy the people whose annals are vacant,” is not without its
true side.
And yet, what seems more pertinent to note here, there is a
stillness, not of unobstructed growth, but of passive inertness,
and symptom of imminent downfall. As victory is silent, so is
defeat. Of the opposing forces the weaker has resigned itself;
the stronger marches on, noiseless now, but rapid, inevitable:
the fall and overturn will not be noiseless. How all grows, and
has its period, even as the herbs of the fields, be it annual,
centennial, millennial! All grows and dies, each by its own
wondrous laws, in wondrous fashion of its own; spiritual things
most wondrously of all. Inscrutable, to the wisest, are these
latter; not to be prophesied of, or understood. If when the oak
stands proudliest flourishing to the eye, you know that its heart
is sound, it is not so with the man; how much less with the
Society, with the Nation of men! Of such it may be affirmed even
that the superficial aspect, that the inward feeling of full
health, is generally ominous. For indeed it is of apoplexy, so to
speak, and a plethoric lazy habit of body, that Churches,
Kingships, Social Institutions, oftenest die. Sad, when such
Institution plethorically says to itself, Take thy ease, thou
hast goods laid up;—like the fool of the Gospel, to whom it was
answered, Fool, _this night_ thy life shall be required of thee!
Is it the healthy peace, or the ominous unhealthy, that rests on
France, for these next Ten Years? Over which the Historian can
pass lightly, without call to linger: for as yet events are not,
much less performances. Time of sunniest stillness;—shall we call
it, what all men thought it, the new Age of Gold? Call it at
least, of Paper; which in many ways is the succedaneum of Gold.
Bank-paper, wherewith you can still buy when there is no gold
left; Book-paper, splendent with Theories, Philosophies,
Sensibilities,—beautiful art, not only of revealing Thought, but
also of so beautifully hiding from us the want of Thought! Paper
is made from the _rags_ of things that did once exist; there are
endless excellences in Paper.—What wisest Philosophe, in this
halcyon uneventful period, could prophesy that there was
approaching, big with darkness and confusion, the event of
events? Hope ushers in a Revolution,—as earthquakes are preceded
by bright weather. On the Fifth of May, fifteen years hence, old
Louis will not be sending for the Sacraments; but a new Louis,
his grandson, with the whole pomp of astonished intoxicated
France, will be opening the States-General.
Dubarrydom and its D’Aiguillons are gone forever. There is a
young, still docile, well-intentioned King; a young, beautiful
and bountiful, well-intentioned Queen; and with them all France,
as it were, become young. Maupeou and his Parlement have to
vanish into thick night; respectable Magistrates, not indifferent
to the Nation, were it only for having been opponents of the
Court, can descend unchained from their “steep rocks at Croe in
Combrailles” and elsewhere, and return singing praises: the old
Parlement of Paris resumes its functions. Instead of a profligate
bankrupt Abbé Terray, we have now, for Controller-General, a
virtuous philosophic Turgot, with a whole Reformed France in his
head. By whom whatsoever is wrong, in Finance or otherwise, will
be righted,—as far as possible. Is it not as if Wisdom herself
were henceforth to have seat and voice in the Council of Kings?
Turgot has taken office with the noblest plainness of speech to
that effect; been listened to with the noblest royal
trustfulness.[23] It is true, as King Louis objects, ‘They say he
never goes to mass;’ but liberal France likes him little worse
for that; liberal France answers, ‘The Abbé Terray always went.’
Philosophism sees, for the first time, a Philosophe (or even a
Philosopher) in office: she in all things will applausively
second him; neither will light old Maurepas obstruct, if he can
easily help it.
Then how “sweet” are the manners; vice “losing all its
deformity;” becoming _decent_ (as established things, making
regulations for themselves, do); becoming almost a kind of
“sweet” virtue! Intelligence so abounds; irradiated by wit and
the art of conversation. Philosophism sits joyful in her
glittering saloons, the dinner-guest of Opulence grown ingenuous,
the very nobles proud to sit by her; and preaches, lifted up over
all Bastilles, a coming millennium. From far Ferney, Patriarch
Voltaire gives sign: veterans Diderot, D’Alembert have lived to
see this day; these with their younger Marmontels, Morellets,
Chamforts, Raynals, make glad the spicy board of rich ministering
Dowager, of philosophic Farmer-General. O nights and suppers of
the gods! Of a truth, the long-demonstrated will now be done:
“the Age of Revolutions approaches” (as Jean Jacques wrote), but
then of happy blessed ones. Man awakens from his long
somnambulism; chases the Phantasms that beleagured and bewitched
him. Behold the new morning glittering down the eastern steeps;
fly, false Phantasms, from its shafts of light; let the Absurd
fly utterly forsaking this lower Earth for ever. It is Truth and
_Astræa Redux_ that (in the shape of Philosophism) henceforth
reign. For what imaginable purpose was man made, if not to be
“happy”? By victorious Analysis, and Progress of the Species,
happiness enough now awaits him. Kings can become philosophers;
or else philosophers Kings. Let but Society be once rightly
constituted,—by victorious Analysis. The stomach that is empty
shall be filled; the throat that is dry shall be wetted with
wine. Labour itself shall be all one as rest; not grievous, but
joyous. Wheatfields, one would think, cannot come to grow
untilled; no man made clayey, or made weary thereby;—unless
indeed machinery will do it? Gratuitous Tailors and Restaurateurs
may start up, at fit intervals, one as yet sees not how. But if
each will, according to rule of Benevolence, have a care for all,
then surely—no one will be uncared for. Nay, who knows but, by
sufficiently victorious Analysis, “human life may be indefinitely
lengthened,” and men get rid of Death, as they have already done
of the Devil? We shall then be happy in spite of Death and the
Devil.—So preaches magniloquent Philosophism her _Redeunt
Saturnia regna._
The prophetic song of Paris and its Philosophes is audible enough
in the Versailles Œil-de-Bœuf; and the Œil-de-Bœuf, intent
chiefly on nearer blessedness, can answer, at worst, with a
polite ‘Why not?’ Good old cheery Maurepas is too joyful a Prime
Minister to dash the world’s joy. Sufficient for the day be its
own evil. Cheery old man, he cuts his jokes, and hovers careless
along; his cloak well adjusted to the wind, if so be he may
please all persons. The simple young King, whom a Maurepas cannot
think of troubling with business, has retired into the interior
apartments; taciturn, irresolute; though with a sharpness of
temper at times: he, at length, determines on a little smithwork;
and so, in apprenticeship with a Sieur Gamain (whom one day he
shall have little cause to bless), is learning to make locks.[24]
It appears further, he understood Geography; and could read
English. Unhappy young King, his childlike trust in that foolish
old Maurepas deserved another return. But friend and foe, destiny
and himself have combined to do him hurt.
Meanwhile the fair young Queen, in her halls of state, walks like
a goddess of Beauty, the cynosure of all eyes; as yet mingles not
with affairs; heeds not the future; least of all, dreads it.
Weber and Campan[25] have pictured her, there within the royal
tapestries, in bright boudoirs, baths, peignoirs, and the Grand
and Little Toilette; with a whole brilliant world waiting
obsequious on her glance: fair young daughter of Time, what
things has Time in store for thee! Like Earth’s brightest
Appearance, she moves gracefully, environed with the grandeur of
Earth: a reality, and yet a magic vision; for, behold, shall not
utter Darkness swallow it! The soft young heart adopts orphans,
portions meritorious maids, delights to succour the poor,—such
poor as come picturesquely in her way; and sets the fashion of
doing it; for as was said, Benevolence has now begun reigning. In
her Duchess de Polignac, in Princess de Lamballe, she enjoys
something almost like friendship; now too, after seven long
years, she has a child, and soon even a Dauphin, of her own; can
reckon herself, as Queens go, happy in a husband.
Events? The Grand events are but charitable Feasts of Morals
(_Fêtes des mœurs_), with their Prizes and Speeches; Poissarde
Processions to the Dauphin’s cradle; above all, Flirtations,
their rise, progress, decline and fall. There are Snow-statues
raised by the poor in hard winter to a Queen who has given them
fuel. There are masquerades, theatricals; beautifyings of little
Trianon, purchase and repair of St. Cloud; journeyings from the
summer Court-Elysium to the winter one. There are poutings and
grudgings from the Sardinian Sisters-in-law (for the Princes too
are wedded); little jealousies, which Court-Etiquette can
moderate. Wholly the lightest-hearted frivolous foam of
Existence; yet an artfully refined foam; pleasant were it not so
costly, like that which mantles on the wine of Champagne!
Monsieur, the King’s elder Brother, has set up for a kind of wit;
and leans towards the Philosophe side. Monseigneur d’Artois pulls
the mask from a fair impertinent; fights a duel in
consequence,—almost drawing blood.[26] He has breeches of a kind
new in this world;—a fabulous kind; “four tall lackeys,” says
Mercier, as if he had seen it, “hold him up in the air, that he
may fall into the garment without vestige of wrinkle; from which
rigorous encasement the same four, in the same way, and with more
effort, must deliver him at night.”[27] This last is he who now,
as a gray time-worn man, sits desolate at Grätz;[28] having
winded up his destiny with the Three Days. In such sort are poor
mortals swept and shovelled to and fro.