The year 1822--My first dispatches from London--Conversation with
George IV. on M. Decazes--The noble character of our diplomacy under
the Legitimacy--A parliamentary sitting--English society--Continuation
of the dispatches--Resumption of parliamentary labours--A ball
for the Irish--Duel between the Duke of Bedford and the Duke of
Buckingham--Dinner at Royal Lodge--The Marchioness Conyngham
and her secret--Portraits of the ministers--Continuation of my
dispatches--Parleys on the Congress of Verona--Letter to M. de
Montmorency; his reply foreshadowing a refusal--A more favourable
letter from M. de Villèle--I write to Madame de Duras--Death of
Lord Londonderry--Another letter to M. de Montmorency--Trip to
Hartwell--Note from M. de Villèle announcing my nomination to the
Congress--The end of old England--Charlotte--Reflexions--I leave
London--The years 1824, 1825, 1826 and 1827--Deliverance of the King
of Spain--My dismissal--The Opposition follows me--Last diplomatic
notes--Neuchâtel, in Switzerland--Death of Louis XVIII.--Coronation of
Charles X.--Reception of the knights of the Orders.
It was in London, in 1822, that I wrote, without intermission, the
longest part of these Memoirs, including my travels in America, my
return to France, my marriage, my passing through Paris, my emigration
to Germany with my brother, my residence and misfortunes in England
between 1793 and 1800. There is found the description of old England,
and, as I retraced all this at the time of my embassy (1822), the
changes that had come over the manners and persons of the time between
1793 and the end of the century struck me: I was naturally led to
compare what I saw in 1822 with what I had seen during the seven years
of my exile across the Channel.
In this way were told, by anticipation, things which I should now have
to place under the proper date of my diplomatic mission. I spoke to you
of my emotion, of the feelings recalled to me by the sight of those
spots dear to my memory; but perhaps you have not read that part of my
book? You have done well. It is enough that I should now tell you of
the place in which the gaps that will be found in the present story of
my embassy in London are filled up. You see me, therefore, writing in
1839, among the dead of 1822 and the dead that went before in 1793.
In London, in the month of April 1822, I was within fifty leagues
of Lady Sutton. I strolled in Kensington Gardens with my recent
impressions and the early past of my young years: a confusion of times
which produces in me a confusion of memories; life which burns out
mingles, like the fire of Corinth, the molten brass of the statues of
the Muses and Love, of the tripods and the tombs.
[Sidenote: The Marquess of Londonderry.]
The parliamentary holidays were still proceeding when I alighted at my
house in Portland Place. The Under-secretary of State, Mr. Planta[157],
invited me, on behalf of the Marquess of Londonderry, to go to dine
at North Cray, the noble lord's country-place. This villa, with a
large tree before the windows on the garden side, looked out over some
meadows; a little underwood growing on hillocks distinguished this site
from the ordinary English sites. Lady Londonderry[158] was much in
vogue in her quality as a marchioness and as wife of the Prime Minister.
My dispatch of the 12th of April, No. 4, relates my first interview
with Lord Londonderry; it touches on the affairs with which I had to
occupy myself:
"LONDON, 12 _April_ 1822.
"MONSIEUR LE VICOMTE[159],
"I went two days ago, on Wednesday the 10th instant, to North
Cray. I shall now have the honour of giving you an account of
my conversation with the Marquess of Londonderry. It lasted
for an hour and a half before dinner, and we resumed it
later, but less at our ease, because we were no longer alone.
"Lord Londonderry first asked for news of the King's health,
with a persistency which manifestly revealed a political
interest; when I had reassured him on this point, he passed
to the Ministry:
"'It is consolidating itself,' he said.
"I replied:
"'It has never been shaken and, as it belongs to one opinion,
it will remain the master so long as that opinion prevails in
the Chambers.'
"This brought us to speak of the elections: he seemed struck
by what I said of the advantage of a summer session to
restore order in the financial year; he had not till then
well understood the state of the question.
"The war between Russia and Turkey next became the subject
of conversation. Lord Londonderry, when speaking of soldiers
and armies, appeared to me to be of the opinion of our late
ministry as to the danger there might be for us in getting
together large bodies of troops; I opposed this idea, I
maintained that there was nothing to be feared in leading the
French soldier into battle; that he would never be unfaithful
in the sight of the enemy's flag; that our army has lately
been increased; that it could be trebled to-morrow, if that
were necessary, without the smallest inconvenience; that, in
truth, a few non-commissioned officers might shout, 'Long
live the Charter!' in a garrison, but that our grenadiers
would always shout, 'Long live the King!' on the battle-field.
"I do not know whether these greater politics made Lord
Londonderry forget the treaty of the negroes; he did not
say a word about it to me. Changing the subject, he spoke
of the message in which the President of the United States
invites Congress to recognise the independence of the Spanish
Colonies:
"'Commercial interests,' I said to him, 'may derive some
advantage from it, but I doubt whether political interests
will find the same profit in it; there are already enough
political ideas in the world. To increase the mass of
those ideas is to compromise more and more the fate of the
monarchies in Europe.'
"Lord Londonderry abounded in my sense and spoke these
remarkable words to me:
"'As for us (the English), we are not at all disposed to
recognise those revolutionary governments.'
"Was he sincere?
"I have had, monsieur le vicomte, to report to you, word
for word, an important conversation. However, we must not
hide from ourselves the fact that England will sooner or
later recognise the independence of the Spanish Colonies;
public opinion and the impulse of her trade will drive her
to it. She has already, during the last three years, gone to
considerable expense to establish secret relations with the
revolted provinces north and south of the Isthmus of Panama.
"Upon the whole, monsieur le vicomte, I have found in
the Marquess of Londonderry a man of sense, of perhaps
somewhat doubtful frankness; a man still steeped in the
old ministerial system; a man accustomed to a submissive
diplomacy and surprised, without being offended, at language
more worthy of France; a man, in short, who could not refrain
from a sort of astonishment while talking with one of those
Royalists who, since seven years, have been represented to
him as madmen or imbeciles.
"I have the honour, etc."
With these general affairs were mingled, as in all embassies, private
transactions. I had to occupy myself with the petitions of M. le Duc
de Fitz-James[160], with the lawsuit of the ship _Eliza Ann_, with the
depredations of the Jersey fishermen on the Granville oyster-banks,
etc., etc. I regretted to be obliged to set aside a little pigeon-hole
in my brain for the papers of the claimants. When one ransacks one's
memory, it is hard to come across Messieurs Usquin, Coppinger, Deliège
and Piffre. But, in a few years, shall we be better known than those
gentlemen? A certain M. Bonnet having died in America, all the Bonnets
in France wrote to me to claim his succession; those tormentors write
to me still! Yet it ought to be time to leave me in peace. It is all
very well for me to reply that, the little accident of the fall of the
Throne having occurred, I no longer occupy myself with this world: they
hold out and want their inheritance at all costs.
[Sidenote: The Eastern question.]
As to the East, it was in contemplation to recall the different
ambassadors from Constantinople. I foresaw that England would not
follow the movement of the Continental Alliance, and I informed M. de
Montmorency of this. The rupture which had been feared between Russia
and the Porte did not happen: Alexander's moderation delayed the event.
In this connection, I made a great expenditure of going and coming,
of sagacity and argument; I wrote a multitude of dispatches, which
have gone to must in our archives with the reports of events that
never occurred. I at least have this advantage over my colleagues,
that I attach no importance to my labours; I saw them, without a care,
swallowed up in oblivion with all the lost ideas of mankind.
Parliament resumed its sittings on the 17th of April; the King returned
on the 18th, and I was presented to him on the 19th. I gave an account
of this presentation in my dispatch of the 19th; it ended thus:
"H. B. M., thanks to his close and varied conversation, did
not give me an opening to tell him something with which the
King had specially charged me; but the favourable and early
occasion of a new audience is about to present itself."
This "something" with which the King had specially charged me related
to M. le Duc Decazes. Later, I executed my orders: I told George
IV. that Louis XVIII. was distressed at the coldness with which the
Ambassador of His Most Christian Majesty had been received. George IV.
replied:
"Listen, Monsieur de Chateaubriand, I will confess to you: M. Decazes'
mission was not to my liking; it was acting a little cavalierly towards
me. My friendship for the King of France alone made me put up with a
favourite who had no other merit than his master's attachment. Louis
XVIII. reckoned greatly on my good-will, and he was right; but I could
not carry indulgence so far as to treat M. Decazes with a distinction
at which England would have taken offense. However, tell your King that
I am touched by what he ordered you to represent to me, and that I
shall always be happy to prove my real attachment for him."
Emboldened by these words, I laid before George IV. all that came to
my mind in favour of M. Decazes. He answered, half in English, half in
French:
"_À merveille!_ You are a true gentleman!"
When I returned to Paris, I gave Louis XVIII. an account of this
conversation: he seemed grateful to me. George IV. had spoken to me
like a well-bred but easy-going prince; he was free from bitterness
because he thought of other things. Nevertheless it did not do to
trifle with him beyond moderation. One of his table-fellows[161] had
wagered that he would ask George IV. to ring the bell, and that George
IV. would obey. George IV. did in fact ring the bell and said to the
gentleman-in-waiting:
"Show this gentleman the door."
The idea of restoring strength and brilliancy to our arms continued to
dominate me. I wrote to M. de Montmorency, on the 13th of April:
"I have had an idea, monsieur le vicomte, which I submit to
your judgment. Would you think it amiss that, in the form of
a conversation with Prince Esterhazy[162], I should give him
to understand that, if Austria required to withdraw a part of
her troops, we could replace them in Piedmont? A few rumours
spread as to an intended muster of our troops in Dauphiné
would give me a favourable pretext. I proposed to the former
ministry to garrison Savoy at the time of the revolt in June
1821[163]. He rejected that measure and I think that, in so
doing, he made a capital mistake. I persist in thinking that
the presence of some French troops in Italy would produce a
great effect on public opinion and that the King's Government
would derive much glory from it."
[Sidenote: Our bold diplomacy.]
Proofs superabound of the noble character of our diplomacy during the
Restoration. What does this matter to parties? Have I not read this
very morning, in a newspaper of the Left, that the Alliance forced us
to act as its policeman and to make war on Spain, when the _Congrès
de Vérone_ is there, when diplomatic documents show in an irrefutable
manner that all Europe, with the exception of Russia, objected to the
war; that not only did it object to it, but that England openly opposed
it; and that Austria secretly thwarted us by most ignoble measures?
This will not prevent them from lying afresh to-morrow; they will not
even take the trouble to examine the question, to read that of which
they speak "knowingly" without having read it! Every lie repeated
becomes a truth: one cannot have too great a contempt for human
opinions.
Lord John Russell[164], on the 25th of April, introduced a motion
in the House of Commons on the state of the national representation
in Parliament: Mr. Canning opposed it. The latter, in his turn,
introduced a Bill to repeal a portion of the Act depriving Catholic
peers of their right of sitting and voting in the House. I was present
at these sittings on the woolsack[165], where the Speaker had made me
sit. Mr. Canning was present, in 1822, at the sitting of the House
of Lords which rejected his Bill; he was hurt at a phrase of the old
Chancellor's[166]: the latter, speaking of the author of the Bill,
exclaimed scornfully:
"They say he is leaving for India: ah, let him go, this fine gentleman,
let him go, and a good journey to him!"
Mr. Canning said to me as we went out:
"I'll catch him yet."
Lord Holland spoke very well, without, however, recalling Mr. Fox. He
used to spin round, so that he often presented his back to the House
and addressed his remarks to the walls. The peers cried, "Hear, hear!"
No one was offended by this eccentricity.
In England, every one expresses himself as he can; petty pleading is
unknown; there is no resemblance in the voice or in the delivery of the
speakers. The members listen patiently; they are not offended when the
speaker has no facility; let him splutter, let him hem and haw, let
him seek his words, they find that he has made "a fine speech" if he
has uttered a few phrases of good sense. This variety of men who have
remained what nature made them ends by being agreeable; it breaks the
monotony. It is true that there are only a small number of lords and
members of the House of Commons who get up to speak. We, always placed
upon a stage, hold forth and gesticulate like a solemn puppet-show. It
was a useful study to me to pass from the secret and silent monarchy
of Berlin to the public and noisy monarchy of London: one could derive
some instruction from the contrast between two nations at the two ends
of the ladder.
The arrival of the King, the re-opening of Parliament, the commencement
of the Season blended duty, business and pleasure: one could meet the
ministers only at Court, at balls, or in Parliament. To celebrate His
Majesty's birthday, I dined with Lord Londonderry; I dined on the Lord
Mayor's[167] galley, which went up to Richmond: I prefer the miniature
_Bucentaur_ in the arsenal at Venice, which no longer bears more than
the memory of the Doges and a Virgilian name. In the old days, as an
Emigrant, lean and half-naked, I had amused myself, without being
Scipio, by throwing stones into the water along that bank now hugged by
the Lord Mayor's plump and well-lined barge.
[Sidenote: Diners.]
I also dined in the East End of the town with Mr. Rothschild[168] of
London, of the younger branch of Salomon[169]: where did I not dine?
The roast-beef equalled that of the Tower of London in stateliness;
the fish were so long that one could not see their tails; ladies, whom
I met there and nowhere else, sang like Abigail. I quaffed tokay not
far from the place which had seen me toss off water by the pitcherful
and almost die of hunger; reclining against the silk-squabbed back of
my well-padded carriage, I saw that same Westminster where I had spent
a night locked in the Abbey, and around which I had strolled, covered
with mud, with Hingant and Fontanes. My house, the rent of which cost
me twelve hundred pounds a year, was opposite the garret inhabited by
my cousin de La Boüétardais what time, in a red robe, he used to play
the guitar on a borrowed truckle-bed to which I had offered shelter
beside my own.
There was no longer a question of those Emigrant hops at which we
used to dance to the tune of the violin of a counsellor to the Breton
Parliament; it was Almack's, conducted by Collinet, that provided
my delight: a public ball under the patronage of the great ladies
of the West End. There the old and the young dandies met. Among the
old, shone the victor of Waterloo, who aired his glory like a snare
for women stretched across the quadrilles; at the head of the young,
stood out Lord Clanwilliam[170], said to be the son of the Duke of
Richmond[171]. He did wonderful things: he galloped out to Richmond
and returned to Almack's after twice falling from his horse. He had a
certain manner of utterance, after the fashion of Alcibiades, which was
thought enchanting. The fashions in words, the affectations of language
and pronunciation changing, as they do, in almost every parliamentary
session in high society in London, an honest man is wonder-struck at
no longer knowing English, which he believed himself to know perfectly
six months before. In 1822, the duty of the man of fashion was, at the
first glance, to present an unhappy and ailing figure; he was expected
to have something neglected about his person: long nails; beard worn
neither full nor shaved, but seeming to have sprouted at a given moment
by surprise, through forgetfulness, amid the preoccupations of despair;
a waving lock of hair; a profound, sublime, wandering and fatal glance;
lips contracted in scorn of the human race; a heart bored, Byronian,
drowned in the disgust and mystery of existence.
To-day it is no longer so: the dandy must have a conquering,
thoughtless, insolent air; he must attend to his dress, wear mustachios
or a beard cut round like Queen Elizabeth's ruff or the radiant disk
of the sun; he reveals the lofty independence of his character by
keeping his hat on his head, by lolling on the sofa, stretching out his
boots before the noses of the ladies seated in admiration on chairs
before him; he rides with a cane which he carries like a wax-taper,
indifferent to the horse which chances to be between his legs. His
health must be perfect and his soul always at the height of five or
six felicities. A few Radical dandies, those most advanced towards the
future, possess a pipe.
But, no doubt, all these things are changed in the very time which I am
taking to describe them. They say that the dandy of the present moment
must no longer know if he exists, if the world is there, if there are
women, and if he ought to salute his neighbour. Is it not curious to
find the original of the dandy under Henry III.?
"Those pretty minions," says the author of the _Isle des
Hermaphrodites_[172], "wore their hair longish, curled and curled
again, showing above their little velvet caps, like the women, and
their shirt-ruffs of linen all around, starched and half-a-foot wide,
in such fashion that, to see their heads above their ruffs, it seemed
as though it was the head of Saint John in a dish." They leave to go
to Henry III.'s chamber, "swinging their body, their heads and their
legs so that I thought at every turn that they must needs fall at full
length.... They found that manner of walking finer than any other."
[Sidenote: London society.]
All the English are mad by nature or by fashion.
Lord Clanwilliam passed quickly: I met him again at Verona; he became
British Minister in Berlin after me. For a moment we followed the same
road, although we did not walk with the same step.
Nothing in London succeeded like insolence, as witness d'Orsay[173]
the brother of the Duchesse de Guiche[174]: he had taken to galloping
in Hyde Park, leaping turnpike gates, gambling, treating the dandies
without ceremony; he had an unequalled success and, to crown the whole,
he ended by carrying off an entire family, father, mother and children.
The ladies most in fashion pleased me little; there was one, however,
who was charming, Lady Gwydyr: she resembled a Frenchwoman in her tone
and manners. Lady Jersey still maintained her position as a beauty.
I met the Opposition at her house. Lady Conyngham belonged to the
Opposition, and the King himself kept a secret liking for his old
friends. Among the patronesses of Almack's, one marked the Russian
Ambassadress[175].
The Countess de Lieven had had some rather ridiculous affairs
with Madame d'Osmond[176] and George IV. As she was audacious and
was considered to be in favour at Court, she had become extremely
fashionable. She was thought to have wit, because her husband was
supposed to have none, which was not true: M. de Lieven[177] was much
superior to Madame. Madame de Lieven, with sharp and unprepossessing
features, is a commonplace, wearisome, arid woman, who has only one
style of conversation: vulgar politics; for the rest, she knows nothing
and she hides the dearth of her ideas under the abundance of her words.
When she finds herself with people of merit, her sterility is silent;
she invests her nullity with a superior air of boredom, as though she
had the right to be bored; having fallen through the effect of time,
and being unable to keep from meddling with something, the dowager of
the Congress has come from Verona to give, in Paris[178], with the
permission of the magistrates of St. Petersburg, a representation
of the diplomatic puerilities of former days. She keeps up private
correspondences and has shown herself a specialist in unhappy
marriages. Our novices have rushed to her rooms to learn to know the
fine world and the art of secrets; they entrust her with theirs, which,
spread abroad by Madame de Lieven, change into underhand tittle-tattle.
The ministers, and those who aspire to become so, are quite proud to be
protected by a lady who has had the honour to see M. de Metternich at
the hours in which the great man, to refresh himself after the weight
of business, amused himself by unravelling silk. Ridicule awaited
Madame de Lieven in Paris. A serious doctrinaire[179] has fallen at
Omphale's feet: "Love, 'twas thou lost Troy."
The day was thus distributed in London: at six o'clock in the morning,
one hastened to a party of pleasure, consisting of a breakfast in
the country; one returned to lunch in London; one changed one's
dress to walk in Bond Street or Hyde Park; one dressed again to dine
at half-past seven; one dressed again for the Opera; at midnight,
one dressed once more for an evening party or rout. What a life of
enchantment! I should a hundred times have preferred the galleys.
The supreme height of fashion was to be unable to make one's way
into the small rooms of a private ball, to remain on the stair-case
blocked by the crowd, and to find one's self nose to nose with the
Duke of Somerset[180]; a state of beatitude to which I once attained.
The English of the new breed are infinitely more frivolous than we;
their heads are turned for a "show:" if the Paris executioner were
to go to London, all England would run after him. Did not Marshal
Soult enrapture the ladies[181], like Blücher, whose mustachios they
kissed? Our marshal, who is not Antipater[182], nor Antigonus[183],
nor Seleucus[184], nor Antiochus[185], nor Ptolemy[186], nor any
of the captain-kings of Alexander, is a distinguished soldier, who
pillaged Spain while getting beaten, and with whom Capuchins redeemed
their lives with pictures. But it is true that, in March 1814, he
published a furious proclamation against Bonaparte, whom he received
in triumph a few days later: he has since done his Easter duty at
Saint-Thomas-d'Aquin. They show his old boots in London for a shilling.
[Sidenote: English frivolity.]
All reputations are quickly made on the banks of the Thames and
as quickly lost. In 1822, I found that great city immersed in the
recollection of Bonaparte; the people had passed from the vilification
of "Nick" to a stupid enthusiasm. Memoirs of Bonaparte swarmed; his
bust adorned every chimney-piece; his engravings shone in the windows
of all the picture-dealers; his colossal statue, by Canova[187],
decorated the Duke of Wellington's stair-case. Could they not have
consecrated another sanctuary to Mars enchained? This deification seems
rather the work of the vanity of a door-porter than of the honour of
a warrior. General, you did not defeat Napoleon at Waterloo: you only
forced the last link of a destiny already shattered.
After my official presentation to George IV., I saw him several
times. The recognition of the Spanish Colonies by England was pretty
well decided upon; at least it seemed as though the ships of those
independent States were to be received under their own flag in the
ports of the British Empire. My dispatch of the 7th of May reports
a conversation which I had had with Lord Londonderry, and the ideas
of that minister. This dispatch, important for the affairs of that
time, would be almost without interest for the reader of to-day. Two
things had to be distinguished in the position of the Spanish Colonies
with regard to England and France: commercial interests and political
interests. I entered into the details of those interests:
"The more I see of the Marquess of Londonderry," I wrote
to M. de Montmorency, "the subtler I find him. He is a man
full of resource, who never says what he means; one would
sometimes be tempted to think him a simple, easy man. In his
voice, his laugh, his look, he has something of M. Pozzo di
Borgo. He does not exactly inspire one with confidence."
The dispatch concludes thus:
"If Europe is obliged to recognise the _de facto_ governments
in America, its whole policy must tend to bring monarchies
to life in the New World, instead of these revolutionary
republics which will send us their principles together with
the products of their soil.
"In reading this dispatch, monsieur le vicomte, you
will doubtless, like myself, experience a movement of
satisfaction. It is already a great step forward in politics
to have forced England to wish to associate herself with us
in interests on which she would not have deigned to consult
us six months ago. I congratulate myself as a good Frenchman
on all that tends to put back our country in the high rank
which she should occupy among foreign nations."
[Illustration: Duc de Richelieu.]
This letter was the basis of all my ideas and of all the negociations
on colonial affairs with which I occupied myself during the Spanish
War, almost a year before that war broke out.
On the 17th of May, I went to Covent Garden, in the Duke of York's[188]
box. The King appeared. This sovereign, once detested, was greeted
with acclamations such as he would not, in other days, have received
from the monks, the inhabitants of that former convent. On the 26th,
the Duke of York came to dinner at the Embassy: George IV. was greatly
tempted to do me the same honour, but he feared the diplomatic
jealousies of my colleagues.
[Sidenote: Death of the Duc de Richelieu.]
The Vicomte de Montmorency refused to enter into negociations on the
Spanish Colonies with the Cabinet of St. James. On the 19th of May, I
heard of the almost sudden death of M. le Duc de Richelieu[189]. That
honest man had patiently borne his first retirement from office; but,
when business came to be taken from him for too long a time, he failed
because he had not a double life to replace that which he had lost. The
great name of Richelieu has been handed down to our time only by women.
The revolutions continued in America. I wrote to M. de Montmorency:
No. 26.
"LONDON, 28 _May_ 1822.
"Peru has just adopted a monarchical Constitution. European
policy should employ every care to obtain a similar result
in the case of the colonies which declare themselves
independent. The United States are singularly afraid of the
establishment of an empire in Mexico. If ever the whole of
the New World is Republican, the monarchies of the Old World
will perish."
There was much spoken of the distress of the Irish peasants, and
society danced in order to console them. A great full-dress ball at the
Opera occupied sensitive souls. The King, meeting me in a corridor,
asked me what I was doing there and, taking me by the arm, he led me
to his box.
The English pit, in my days of exile, was noisy and coarse; sailors
drank ale in the pit, ate oranges, apostrophized the boxes. I found
myself one evening next to a sailor who had entered the theatre drunk;
he asked me where he was; I told him:
"At Covent Garden."
"Pretty garden, indeed!" he exclaimed, seized, like Homer's gods, with
inextinguishable laughter.
Invited lately to an evening-party at Lord Lansdowne's[190], I was
presented by His Majesty to a severe-looking lady, seventy-three years
old: she was dressed in crape, wore a black veil like a diadem on her
white hair, and resembled a queen who had abdicated her throne. She
greeted me in a solemn voice with three mangled sentences from the
_Génie du Christianisme_; then she said to me, with no less solemnity:
"I am Mrs Siddons[191]."
If she had said to me, "I am Lady Macbeth," I should have believed her.
I had seen her formerly on the stage in all the strength of her talent.
One has but to live to find again those wrecks of one century cast by
the billows of time upon the shore of another century.
My French visitors in London were M. le Duc[192] and Madame la Duchesse
de Guiche[193], of whom I will talk to you at Prague; M. le Marquis
de Custine, whom I had seen as a child at Fervacques; and Madame la
Vicomtesse de Noailles[194], as agreeable, witty and gracious as though
she were still wandering, at fourteen years of age, in the beautiful
gardens of Méréville.
People were weary of pleasure; the ambassadors were longing to go on
leave; Prince Esterhazy was preparing to set out for Vienna: he hoped
to be summoned to the Congress, for already they were speaking of a
congress. M. Rothschild[195] was returning to France after concluding
with his brother the Russian loan of twenty-three million roubles.
The Duke of Bedford[196] had fought a duel with the huge Duke of
Buckingham[197], at the bottom of a pit, in Hyde Park; an insulting
song against the King of France, sent over from Paris and printed
in the London papers, amused the Radical English mob, which laughed
without knowing at what.
I left, on the 6th of June, for Royal Lodge, where the King had gone.
He had invited me to dine and sleep.
[Sidenote: George IV.]
I saw George IV. again on the 12th, 13th and 14th, at His Majesty's
levee, drawing-room and ball. On the 24th, I gave a fête to the
Prince[198] and Princess[199] of Denmark: the Duke of York had invited
himself to it.
In earlier times, the kindness with which the Marchioness Conyngham
treated me would have been an important thing: she told me that the
idea of His Britannic Majesty's visit to the Continent was not quite
abandoned. I religiously kept this great secret locked in my bosom.
What important dispatches would have been written on this word of a
favourite in the time of Mesdames de Verneuil[200], de Maintenon[201],
des Ursins[202], de Pompadour! For the rest I should have heated
myself unduly to obtain any information out of the Court in London: in
vain do you speak, they do not listen to you.
Lord Londonderry especially was impassive: he embarrassed you at once
by his sincerity as a minister and his reserve as a man. He explained
his policy frankly, with the iciest air, and kept a profound silence as
to facts. He wore an air of indifference to what he said, even as to
what he did not say; one could not tell what one was to believe of what
he showed or concealed. He would not have budged if you had "caught him
in the ear with a sausage," as Saint-Simon says.
Lord Londonderry had a sort of Irish eloquence which often aroused
the laughter of the House of Lords and the gaiety of the public; his
blunders were celebrated, but he also sometimes attained flashes of
eloquence which carried away the crowd, as, for instance, his words
relating to the Battle of Waterloo, which I have recalled.
Lord Harrowby[203] was President of the Council; he spoke correctly,
lucidly, and as one acquainted with the facts. It would be considered
unbecoming in London for a president of the ministers to express
himself prolixly or rhetorically. He was, moreover, a perfect
gentleman for manner. One day, at the Pâquis, at Geneva, an Englishman
was announced: Lord Harrowby entered; I recognised him only with
difficulty: he had lost his old King; mine was exiled. It was the last
time that the England of my time of grandeur appeared before me.
I have mentioned Sir Robert Peel[204] and Lord Westmorland[205] in the
_Congrès de Vérone._
I do not know if Lord Bathurst[206] was descended from or related to
that Earl Bathurst[207] of whom Sterne wrote:
"This nobleman ... is a prodigy; for at eighty-five he has all the wit
and promptness of a man of thirty. A disposition to be pleased, and a
power to please others beyond whatever I knew[208]."
Lord Bathurst, the minister of whom I am telling you, was well-informed
and well-bred; he kept up the tradition of the old French manners of
good company. He had three or four daughters who ran, or rather who
flew like sea-swallows, along the waves, white, tall, and slender. What
has become of them[209]? Did they fall into the Tiber with the young
Englishwoman of their name?
[Sidenote: The Earl of Liverpool.]
Lord Liverpool[210] was not, like Lord Londonderry, the principal
minister; but he was the most influential and the most respected
minister. He enjoyed that reputation of a religious man and a good man
which does so much for him who possesses it; one comes to such a man
with the confidence which one has for a father; no action seems good
if it is not approved by that godly person, invested with an authority
far superior to that of talent. Lord Liverpool was the son of Charles
Jenkinson, Baron Hawkesbury, Earl of Liverpool[211], the favourite
of Lord Bute[212]. Almost all the English statesmen have begun with
the literary career, with pieces of poetry more or less good, or with
articles, generally excellent, inserted in the reviews. A portrait
remains of this first Earl of Liverpool when he was private secretary
to Lord Bute; his family is greatly distressed by it: this vanity,
puerile at all times, is doubtless much more so to-day; but we must
not forget that our most ardent revolutionaries took their hatred of
society from natural disgraces or social inferiorities.
It is possible that Lord Liverpool, who was inclined towards reforms,
and to whom Mr. Canning owed his last ministry, was influenced,
despite the rigour of his religious principles, by some dislike of
recollections. At the time when I knew Lord Liverpool, he had almost
reached a Puritan illumination. Habitually he lived alone with an old
sister, some miles out of London. He spoke little; his countenance
was melancholy; he often bent an ear and seemed to be listening to
something sad: one would have said that he was hearing his years fall,
like the drops of a winter's rain upon the pavement. For the rest, he
had no passions and he lived according to God.
Mr. Croker[213], Secretary to the Admiralty, famous as a speaker and as
a writer, belonged, like Mr. Canning, to the school of Mr. Pitt; but he
was more sophisticated than the latter. He occupied, at Whitehall, one
of those gloomy apartments from which Charles I. had passed through a
window to walk on the same level to the scaffold. One is astonished, in
London, on entering the habitations where sit the directors of those
establishments whose weight makes itself felt to the ends of the earth.
A few men in black frock-coats sitting at a bare table: that is all you
see; yet those are the directors of the British Navy, or the members of
that company of merchants, the successors of the Mogul emperors, who
number two-hundred millions of subjects in India.
Mr. Croker came to visit me, two years ago, at the Infirmerie de
Marie-Thérèse. He pointed out to me the similarity of our opinions and
of our destinies. Events separate us from the world; politics make
solitaries, even as religion makes anchorites. When man dwells in the
desert, he finds within himself some distant image of the Infinite
Being who, living alone in immensity, sees the revolutions of the
worlds accomplish themselves.
In the course of the months of June and July, the affairs of Spain
began seriously to occupy the Cabinet of London. Lord Londonderry and
the majority of the ambassadors displayed a ludicrous anxiety and
almost dread in talking of these affairs. The Ministry feared lest,
in case of a rupture, we should get the better of the Spaniards; the
ministers of the other Powers trembled lest we should be beaten: they
still saw our army taking the tricolour cockade.
[Sidenote: Dispatch on Spanish affairs.]
In my dispatch of the 28th of June, No. 35, the dispositions of England
are faithfully stated:
No. 35.
"LONDON, 28 _June_ 1822.
"MONSIEUR LE VICOMTE,
"It has been more difficult for me to tell you what Lord
Londonderry thinks, relative to Spain, than it will be easy
for me to penetrate the secret of the instructions given to
Sir W. A'Court[214]; however, I will leave nothing undone
to procure you the information for which you ask me in
your last dispatch, No. 18. If I have correctly estimated
the policy of the English Cabinet and the character of
Lord Londonderry, I am persuaded that Sir W. A'Court has
taken with him scarcely anything in writing. They will have
charged him verbally to observe the parties without mixing
in their quarrels. The Cabinet of St. James does not love
the Cortes, but it despises Ferdinand. It will certainly do
nothing for the Royalists. Besides, it will be enough that
our influence should be exercised in favour of one opinion
for the English influence to support the other. Our reviving
prosperity inspires a lively jealousy. It is true that there
is here, among the statesmen, a certain vague fear of the
revolutionary passions which are agitating Spain; but this
fear is silent in the presence of private interests: so much
so that if, on the one hand, Great Britain could exclude our
wares from the Peninsula and if, on the other, she could
recognise the independence of the Spanish Colonies, she
would easily resign herself to events and console herself
for the misfortunes which might overwhelm the Continental
monarchies anew. The same principle that prevents England
from withdrawing her ambassador from Constantinople makes her
send an ambassador to Madrid: she severs herself from the
common destinies and attends only to what she may be able to
make out of the revolutions of the empires.
"I have the honour to be, etc."
Reverting to the news from Spain in my dispatch of the 16th of July,
No. 40, I said to M. de Montmorency:
No. 40.
"LONDON, 16 _July_ 1822.
"MONSIEUR LE VICOMTE,
"The English newspapers, copying from the French newspapers,
this morning give news from Madrid up to and including the
8th. I never expected better from the King of Spain, and
I was not surprised. If that unhappy Prince is doomed to
perish, the manner of the catastrophe is not a matter of
indifference to the rest of the world: the dagger would
lay low only the Monarch, the scaffold might kill the
Monarchy. Already the judgments on Charles I. and Louis
XVI. are a great deal too much: Heaven preserve us from a
third judgment which would appear to establish, through the
authority of crimes, a sort of right of peoples and a body of
jurisprudence against the kings! We can now expect anything:
a declaration of war on the part of the Spanish Government
is one of the chances which the French Government must have
foreseen. In any case, we shall soon be obliged to put an end
to the sanitary cordon, for, once the month of September is
past and the plague not reappearing at Barcelona, it would
be a real mockery still to speak of a _sanitary cordon_; we
should therefore quite frankly confess to an _army_ and give
the reason which obliges us to maintain that army. Would
not that be equivalent to a declaration of war against the
Cortes? On the other hand, shall we break up the sanitary
cordon? That act of weakness would compromise the safety of
France, disgrace the ministry and revive the hopes of the
revolutionary faction in our midst.
"I have the honour to be, etc., etc., etc."
Since the Congress of Vienna and of Aix-la-Chapelle, the princes of
Europe had their heads turned with congresses: it was there that one
amused one's self and divided a few peoples. Scarcely was the Congress,
commenced at Laibach and continued at Troppau, ended, when they thought
of convoking another in Vienna, at Ferrara, or at Verona; Spanish
affairs offered the occasion to hasten the moment. Each Court had
already marked out its ambassador.
In London, I saw every one preparing to leave for Verona: as my head
was full of Spanish affairs and as I was dreaming of a plan for the
honour of France, I thought I could be of some use to the new congress
by making myself known in a respect which was not thought of. I had
written to M. de Montmorency on the 24th of May; but I met with no
favour. The minister's long reply is evasive, embarrassed, entangled;
a marked aversion to me is ill-disguised under expressions of
friendliness; it ends with this paragraph:
"Since I am in a confidential mood, noble viscount, I wish
to tell you what I would not insert in an official dispatch,
but what has been urged upon me by some personal observations
and also by some opinions from persons who know the ground
well upon which you are placed. Has it not already occurred
to you that one must be mindful, with the English Ministry,
of certain effects of jealousy and temper which it is always
ready to conceive at direct marks of favour with the King
and of credit in society? You must tell me if you have not
happened to observe some traces of this."
Through whom had the complaints of my "credit" with the King and in
"society" (meaning, I suppose, with the Marchioness Conyngham) reached
the Vicomte de Montmorency? I do not know.
[Sidenote: Letter from M. de Villèle.]
Foreseeing, through this private dispatch, that my game was lost with
the Minister of Foreign Affairs, I addressed myself to M. de Villèle,
then my friend, who did not lean much towards his colleague. In his
letter of the 5th of May 1822, he at first replied with a favourable
word:
"PARIS, 5 _May_ 1822.
"I thank you," he said, "for all that you have done for us in
London; the determination of the Court there on the subject
of the Spanish Colonies can have no influence on ours; the
position is very different; we must above all avoid being
prevented by a war with Spain from acting elsewhere, as we
must, if affairs in the East brought about new political
combinations in Europe.
"We will not allow the French Government to be disgraced
through a failure to participate in the events which may
result from the present situation of the world; others may
intervene with more advantage, none with more courage or
loyalty.
"People are greatly mistaken, I think, both as to the real
means of our country and as to the power which the King's
Government is still able to exercise within the forms which
it has laid down for itself; they offer more resources than
appears to be believed, and I hope that, when the time comes,
we shall know how to prove it.
"You will help us, my dear friend, in these great
circumstances, if they offer themselves. We know it and rely
upon it; the honour will be for all, and it is not a question
at present of that partition which will be made according to
the services rendered; let us all vie in zeal as to who shall
render the most signal services.
"I do not know, indeed, if this will turn to a congress; but,
in any case, I shall not forget what you have told me.
"JH. DE VILLÈLE."
At this first word of good understanding, I brought pressure on the
Minister of Finance through Madame la Duchesse de Duras; she had
already lent me the support of her friendship against the forgetfulness
of the Court in 1814. She soon received this note from M. de Villèle:
"All that we were saying is said; all that lies in my heart
and in my mind to do for the public good and for my friend is
done and shall be done, be certain of it. I have no need to
be preached to nor to be converted, as I said before; I act
on conviction and sentiment.
"Receive, madame, the homage of my affectionate respect."
My last dispatch, dated 9 August, informed M. de Montmorency that Lord
Londonderry would leave for Vienna between the 15th and 20th. The swift
and mighty contradiction of mortal projects was given me; I thought
that I had to speak to the Most Christian King's Council of human
affairs only, whereas I had to report to it on the affairs of God:
[Sidenote: Death of Lord Londonberry.]
"LONDON, 12 _August_ 1822, _four o'clock in the afternoon.
"Dispatch transmitted to Paris by the Calais telegraph._
"The Marquess of Londonderry died suddenly this morning,
12th, at nine o'clock in the morning, at his country-house at
North Cray."
[Illustration: Marquess of Londonderry.]
No. 49.
"LONDON, 13 _August_ 1822.
"MONSIEUR LE VICOMTE,
"If the weather has put no obstacle in the way of my
telegraphic dispatch, and if no accident has arrived to my
special messenger, sent off at four o'clock, I hope that you
have been the first on the Continent to receive the news of
the sudden death of Lord Londonderry.
"This death was extremely tragic. The noble marquess was in
London on Friday; he felt his head a little troubled; he had
himself bled between the shoulders. After which he left for
North Cray, where the Marchioness of Londonderry had been
settled since a month. Fever broke out on Saturday the 10th
and Sunday the 11th; but it seemed to subside in the night
from Sunday to Monday, and on Monday morning the 12th the
patient seemed so well that his wife, who was nursing him,
thought she might leave him for a moment. Lord Londonderry,
whose head was wandering, finding himself alone, got up, went
into another room, seized a razor and, at the first attempt,
cut his jugular vein. He fell bathed in his blood, at the
feet of a doctor who was coming to his assistance.
"They are keeping back this deplorable accident as much as
possible, but it has come to the knowledge of the public in a
distorted shape and has given rise to all sorts of rumours.
"Why should Lord Londonderry have attempted his life? He
had neither passions nor misfortunes; he was established
more firmly than ever in his place. He was preparing to
leave on Thursday next. He was making a pleasure-trip of a
business journey. He was to be back on the 15th of October
for shooting-parties, arranged beforehand, to which he
had invited me. Providence ordained otherwise, and Lord
Londonderry has followed the Duc de Richelieu."
Here are some details which did not enter into my dispatches.
On his return to London, George IV. told me that Lord Londonderry had
gone to show him the scheme of instructions which he had drawn up for
himself and which he was to follow at the Congress. George IV. took up
the manuscript, the better to weigh its terms, and began to read it
aloud. He noticed that Lord Londonderry was not listening to him and
that he was turning his eyes round the ceiling of the closet:
"What's the matter, my lord?" asked the King.
"It's that insufferable John[215], sir, who is at the door; he will not
go away, though I am always telling him."
The King, astonished, folded up the manuscript and said:
"You are ill, my lord; go home; get yourself bled."
Lord Londonderry went out and went to buy the pen-knife with which he
cut his throat.
On the 15th, I continued my reports to M. de Montmorency:
"Messengers have been sent in every direction, to the
watering-places, to the sea-side, to the country-houses,
to fetch the absent ministers. At the time of the accident
none of them were in London. They are expected to-day or
to-morrow; they will hold a Council, but they cannot decide
anything, for in the last result the King will appoint
their new colleague, and the King is in Edinburgh. It is
unlikely that His Britannic Majesty will hasten to make a
choice in the midst of the celebrations. The death of the
Marquess of Londonderry is a serious matter for England:
he was not loved, but he was feared; the Radicals hated
him, but they were afraid of him. Singularly courageous, he
overawed the Opposition, which did not dare to insult him too
much in Parliament or in the newspapers. His imperturbable
coolness, his profound indifference for men and things,
his instinct for despotism and his secret contempt for
constitutional liberties made him a minister well-fitted to
contend successfully with the tendencies of the century. His
defects became good qualities at a time when exaggeration and
democracy threaten the world.
"I have the honour to be, etc."
"LONDON, 15 _August_ 1822.
"MONSIEUR LE VICOMTE,
"Further intelligence confirms what I had the honour to tell
you touching the death of the Marquess of Londonderry, in my
ordinary dispatch of the day before yesterday, No. 49. Only,
the fatal instrument with which the unfortunate minister
cut his jugular vein was a pen-knife, and not a razor as I
told you. The coroner's report, which you will read in the
newspapers, will inform you fully. This inquest held on the
corpse of the Prime Minister of Great Britain, as though on
the body of a murderer, adds something still more terrible to
this event
"You are doubtless now aware, monsieur le vicomte, that Lord
Londonderry had shown proofs of mental alienation some days
before his suicide and that the King himself had noticed it.
A slight circumstance to which I had paid no attention, but
which returned to my memory after the catastrophe, deserves
to be told. I had gone to see the Marquess of Londonderry,
some twelve or fifteen days ago. Contrary to his custom and
to the custom of the country, he received me familiarly
in his dressing-room. He was about to shave himself and,
laughing a sardonic laugh, he spoke to me in praise of the
English razors. I complimented him on the approaching closing
of the session:
"'Yes,' said he, 'either that must come to an end, or I must.'
"I have the honour to be, etc."
[Sidenote: Details of the suicide.]
All that the English Radicals and the French Liberals have told
concerning the death of Lord Londonderry, namely, that he killed
himself through political despair, feeling that the principles
opposed to his own were going to triumph, is a pure fable invented by
the imagination of some, the party spirit and silliness of others.
Lord Londonderry was not the man to repent of having sinned against
humanity, for which he cared very little, nor against the enlightenment
of the age, for which he had a profound contempt: madness had come into
the Castlereagh family through the women.
It was decided that the Duke of Wellington, accompanied by Lord
Clanwilliam, should take Lord Londonderry's place at the Congress. The
official instructions were reduced to this: to forget Italy entirely,
not to mix at all in the affairs of Spain, to negociate, where those of
the East were concerned, by maintaining peace without increasing the
influence of Russia. The chances continued in favour of Mr. Canning,
and the business of the Foreign Office was entrusted _ad interim_ to
Lord Bathurst, the Colonial Secretary.
I attended Lord Londonderry's funeral at Westminster on the 20th of
August. The Duke of Wellington appeared moved; Lord Liverpool was
obliged to cover his face with his hat to hide his tears. One heard a
few cries of insult and joy outside, as the body entered the Abbey.
Were Colbert[216] and Louis XIV.[217] more respected? The living can
teach nothing to the dead; the dead, on the contrary, instruct the
living.
THE VICOMTE DE MONTMORENCY TO THE VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND
"PARIS, 17 _August._
"Although there are no very important dispatches to entrust
to your faithful Hyacinthe, I wish nevertheless to send him
back, according to your own desire, noble viscount, and to
that which he has expressed to me, on behalf of Madame de
Chateaubriand, to see him return to you soon. I will make
use of this to send you a few words of a more confidential
character on the profound impression made upon us here, as in
London, by the terrible death of the Marquess of Londonderry,
and also, by the same occasion, on a matter to which you seem
to attach a very exaggerated and very exclusive interest.
The Council of the King has taken advantage of it and has
fixed for these days, immediately after the closing, which
took place this morning, the discussion of the principal
directions to be settled, the instructions to be given, and
also the persons to be selected: the first question is to
know if these will be one or several. You have somewhere, I
seem to think, expressed astonishment that we could think
of------, not to put you before him, you know very well
that he cannot be on the same line for us. If, after the
most mature examination, we did not think it possible to
avail ourselves of the good-will which you have very frankly
shown us in this respect, it would doubtless require, in
order to decide us, grave motives which I would communicate
to you with the same frankness: the postponement is rather
favourable to your desire, in this sense, that it would
be most inconvenient, both for you and for us, that you
should leave London within the next few weeks and before
the ministerial decision which continues to occupy all the
Cabinets. This strikes everybody so much that some friends
said to me the other day:
"'If M. de Chateaubriand had come at once to Paris, it would
have been rather annoying for him to be obliged to leave
again for London.'
"We therefore expect to make this important nomination on
the return from Edinburgh. The Chevalier Stuart[218] said
yesterday that surely the Duke of Wellington would go to
the Congress; it is important that we should know this at
the earliest possible moment. M. Hyde de Neuville arrived
yesterday in good health. I was delighted to see him. I renew
to you, noble viscount, all my inviolable sentiments.
"MONTMORENCY."
This new letter from M. de Montmorency, mingled with some ironical
phrases, fully confirmed my impression that he did not want me at the
Congress.
I gave a dinner on St. Louis' Day[219], in honour of Louis XVIII., and
I went to visit Hartwell in remembrance of the King's exile; I was
fulfilling a duty rather than enjoying a pleasure. Royal misfortunes
are so common nowadays that one feels but little interest in spots that
have not been inhabited by genius or virtue. All that I saw in the sad
little park at Hartwell was the daughter of Louis XVI.
[Sidenote: Plenipotentiary at Verona.]
At last, I suddenly received from M. de Villèle an unexpected note
which gave the lie to my previsions and put an end to my uncertainties:
"27 _August_ 1822.
"MY DEAR CHATEAUBRIAND,
"It has just been decided that, so soon as the proprieties
relating to the King's return to London permit you, you will
be authorized to come to Paris, thence to proceed to Vienna
or Verona, as one of the three plenipotentiaries charged to
represent France at the Congress. The two others will be
Messieurs de Caraman[220] and de La Ferronnays; which does
not prevent M. le Vicomte de Montmorency from leaving the
day after to-morrow for Vienna, in order to assist at the
conferences which may take place in that city before the
Congress. He is to return to Paris when the sovereigns leave
for Verona.
"This for yourself alone. I am glad that this matter has
taken the turn which you desire. Cordially and entirely
yours."
Upon this note, I prepared to leave.
The thunder-bolt which incessantly falls at my feet followed me
everywhere. With Lord Londonderry died old England, which had struggled
on till then in the midst of growing innovations. Supervened Mr.
Canning: self-love carried him so far as to talk the language of the
propagandist from his place in Parliament After him appeared the
Duke of Wellington, a Conservative who came to pull down: when the
sentence of societies is pronounced, the hand which was to build
knows only how to demolish. Lord Grey[221], O'Connell[222], all those
labourers at ruins were working successively at the overthrow of the
old institutions. Parliamentary reform, Irish emancipation, all things
excellent in themselves, became, thanks to the insalubrity of the time,
causes of destruction. Fear increased the evils: if men had not been so
greatly terrified at the threats, they would have been able to resist
with a certain success.
What need had England to consent to our last troubles? Shut up in her
island and in her national enmities, she was sheltered. What need had
the Cabinet of St. James to dread the separation of Ireland? Ireland is
only England's long-boat: cut the painter, and the long-boat, separated
from the big ship, will go to wreck amid the waves. Lord Liverpool
himself had sad forebodings. I dined with him one day: after dinner,
we talked at a window overlooking the Thames; down the river we saw
a portion of the City, of which the fog and smoke enlarged the bulk.
I praised to my host the solidity of the English Monarchy, kept in
balance by the even swing of liberty and power. The venerable peer,
raising and stretching out his arm, pointed to the City and said:
"What sense of solidity can there be with these enormous towns? A
serious insurrection in London, and all is lost."
It seems to me as though I were finishing a journey in England like
that which I made, in earlier days, on the ruins of Athens, of
Jerusalem, of Memphis and Carthage. Summoning to my presence the
centuries of Albion, passing from renown to renown, seeing them
swallowed up by turns, I feel a sort of painful giddiness. What has
become of those brilliant and riotous days in which lived Shakespeare
and Milton, Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, Cromwell and William[223],
Pitt and Burke? All that is finished; superiorities and mediocrities,
hatreds and loves, bliss and wretchedness, oppressors and oppressed,
executioners and victims, kings and people, all sleep in the same
silence and the same dust. But what nullities we are, if it is thus
with the most living part of the human kind, with the genius which
lingers like a shadow of olden time in the present generation, but
which no longer lives in itself and which does not know that it ever
existed!
[Sidenote: Changes in England.]
How many times has England, in the space of a few hundred years, been
destroyed? Through how many revolutions has she not passed to come
to the brink of a greater, a more deep-laid revolution, which will
envelop posterity! I have seen those famous British parliaments in all
their mightiness: what will become of them? I have seen England in her
ancient manners and in her ancient prosperity: everywhere the little
lonely church with its steeple, Gray's country churchyard, everywhere
narrow and gravelled roads, valleys filled with cows, heaths spotted
with sheep, parks, country-houses, towns; few large forests, few birds,
the sea-breeze. It was not those plains of Andalusia, where I found the
old Christians and the young loves among the voluptuous remains of the
palace of the Moors in the midst of the aloes and palm-trees:
Quid dignum memorare tuis, Hispania, terris
Vox humana valet?
There was not that Roman Campagna, whose irresistible charm is
incessantly calling after me; those waves and that sun were not
the waves and the sun that bathe and light the promontory on which
Plato[224] taught his disciples, that Sunium where I heard the cricket
sing, in vain asking Minerva for the hearth of the priests of her
temple; but after all, such as she was, this England, surrounded by her
ships, covered with her herds and professing the cult of her great men,
was charming and redoubtable.
To-day her valleys are darkened by the smoke of forges and workshops,
her roads changed into iron ways; and along those roads, in lieu of
Milton and Shakespeare, move wandering boilers. Already the nurseries
of knowledge, Oxford and Cambridge, are assuming a deserted aspect:
their colleges and their Gothic chapels, half-abandoned, distress the
eye; in their cloisters, near the sepulchral stones of the middle ages,
lie, forgotten, the marble annals of the ancient peoples of Greece:
ruins guarding ruins.
By these monuments, around which the void was beginning to form, I
left that part of my spring days which I had re-found; I parted a
second time with my youth, on the same shore where I had abandoned it
formerly: Charlotte had suddenly reappeared like that luminary, the
delight of the shades, which, delayed by the flight of the months,
should rise in the middle of the night. If you are not too weary, read
in these Memoirs of the effect which the sudden vision of that woman
produced upon me in 1822. When she had distinguished me before, I did
not know those other Englishwomen who came to flock round me in my
hour of power and renown: their homage was as fickle as my fortune.
To-day, after sixteen new years have passed away since my embassy in
London, after so many new destructions, my eyes are carried back to
the daughter of the land of Desdemona and Juliet: she counts now in my
memory only from the day on which her unexpected presence rekindled the
torch of my recollections. A new Epimenides[225], awakened after a long
sleep, I fix my gaze upon a beacon so much the brighter in that the
others are extinguished along the shore; one alone excepted will shine
long after me.
I did not finish telling all that concerns Charlotte in the preceding
pages of these Memoirs: she came with a part of her family to see
me in France, when I was a minister, in 1823. Through one of those
inexplicable miseries of mankind, preoccupied as I was with a war on
which depended the fate of the French Monarchy, something must no doubt
have been lacking in my voice, for Charlotte, returning to England,
left me a letter in which she shows herself hurt at the coldness of my
reception. I have dared neither to write to her nor to send back to her
some literary fragments which she had restored to me and which I had
promised to return to her augmented. If it were true that she had had a
genuine reason to complain, I would fling into the fire all that I have
told of my first sojourn across the sea.
Often the thought has come to me to go to solve my doubts; but could
I return to England, I, who am weak enough not to dare to visit the
paternal rock on which I have marked out my tomb? I am afraid nowadays
of my sensations: time, removing my young years, has made me like those
soldiers whose limbs have been left on the battle-field; my blood,
having a less long road to travel, rushes into my heart with so rapid a
flow that that old organ of my joys and sorrows throbs as though ready
to burst. The wish to burn all that concerns Charlotte, although she is
treated with religious respect, is mingled in my mind with the longing
to destroy these Memoirs: if they still belonged to me, or if I could
buy them back, I should succumb to the temptation. I have so great
a distaste for everything, so great a contempt for the present and
for the immediate future, so firm a conviction that men, henceforth,
taken all together as a public (and that for several centuries), will
be pitiable, that I blush to consume my last moments in the relating
of past things, in the depicting of a finished world, of which the
language and the name will no more be understood.